FOURPLAYS^ 

OF  THE 

FREE  THEATER 

AUTHORIZED 
TRANSLATION  BY 

BARRETT  H.CLARK 

The  Fossils 

The  Serenade 

Fr  an9oise'  Luck 

The  Dupe 


J* 


BARRETT  H.  CLARK 


THE 
CONTINENTAL    DRAMA    OF    TO-DAY 
Outlines  for  Its  Study  By  Barrett  H.  Clark 

Suggestions,  questions,  biographies,  and  bibliogra- 
phies with  outlines,  of  half  a  dozen  pages  or  less 
each,  of  the  more  important  plays  of  Ibsen,  Bjorn- 
sen,  Strindberg.  Tolstoy,  Gorky,  TchekofF,  An- 
dreycff,  Ilauptniann,  Sudcrmann,  Wedekind,  Schnitz- 
ler,  \'on  HotTmansthal,  Becque,  Le  Maitre,  Lavedan, 
Donnay,  Maeterlinck,  Rostand,  Hervieu,  Giacosa, 
D'Annunzio,  Echegaray,  and  Galdos.  While  in- 
tended to  be  used  in  connection  with  a  reading  of 
the  plays  themselves,  the  book  has  an  independent 
interest.  12  mo.  $1.50  net. 
(Published  by  Henry  Holt  and  Company,  New  York) 

"Three  Modern  Plays  from  the  French," 

THE  PRINCE  D'AUREC,  THE  PARDON, 
THE  OTHER  DANGER 

Translated    by    Barrett    H.    Clark,    with    an    introduc- 
tion  by   Clayton   Hamilton.      12   mo.     Net  $1.35. 
(Published  by  Henry  Holt  and  Company,  New  York) 

THE   LABYRINTH 

A  play  in  five  acts,  by  Paul  Hervieu.  Authorized 
translation  by  Barrett  H.  Clark  and  Lander  Mac- 
Clintock.      16  mo.     Net  $1.00. 

(Published  by  B,   W.   Huebscii,   New   York) 


I 


^FOUR   PLAYS   OF  THE 
FREE  THEATER 

The  Fossils  By  Francois  de  Curel 

The  Serenade  By  Jean  Jullien 

Francoise'  Luck  By  Georges  de  Porto=Riche 

The  Dupe  By  Georges  Ancey 


PRODUCED  AT  THE  THEATRE  LIBRE 


Translated  with  an  Introduction 
BY 

BARRETT  H.  CLARK 

Preface  by  Brieux  of  the  French  Academy 


CINCINNATI 

STEWART  &  KIDD  COMPANY 
1917 


Copyright,  1914,  by 

STEWART  &  KIDD  COMPANY 

All  Rights  Reserved 

Copyright  in  England 

First  impression  November,  191 4 
Second  impression  February,  1917 


VAIL-BALLOU     COMPANY 

BINQHAMTON   AND   NIW   YORK 


CONTENTS 


Preface Brit 


PAGE 
V 


Antoine  and  the  "  Free 

Theater  "        ...      Barrett  II.  Clark     .      .      xi 

The   Fossils,   a   play   in 

four  acts       ....      Francois  de  Cure!  .      .        5 

The   Serenade,  a  Bour- 
geois study  in  three  acts     Jean   JuUicn       ...      85 

Francoise'  Luck,  a  com- 
edy in  one  act   .       .       .      Gcor<rcs  de  Porto-Riche   149 

The  Dupe,  a  comedy  in 

five  acts        ....      Georges  Ancey  .      .      .187 


PREFACE 

Mr.  Barrett  H.  Clark, 
Berlin, 

My  Dear  Colleague : 

The  Nineteenth  Centur.y  was  an  age  which 
strove  in  the  pursuit  of  truth;  during  the  last 
twenty  years  that  struggle  became  strikingly  man- 
ifest, for  the  theater  itself  was  affected. 

After  the  stupidities  of  Romanticism  —  with 
its  moonlit  fortresses  and  factitious  medievalism, 
its  poniards  and  poison-vials,  its  caverns  and 
towers,  its  chatelaines  and  sorcerers,  its  murders 
and  idle  gossip,  men  began  to  feel  the  need  of  a 
closer  observation  of  the  life  about  them.  After 
a  period  of  narrow  philosophic  spirituality,  there 
arose  the  desire  to  examine  with  a  critical  eye  that 
which  in  the  past  had  been  accepted  as  a  matter  of 
course.  Science,  which  was  the  heritage  of  the 
Nineteenth  Century,  rapidly  became  "  experi- 
mental." 

As  the  French  temperament  was  fertile  ground 
for  the  new  ideas,  beautiful  plants  and  Howers 
and  great  trees  sprang  up  with  a  vigor  which 
seemed  wholly  spontaneous. 

In  the  realm  of  philosophy  it  was  Taine,  in 
medicine  Claude  Bernard,  in  science  all  the  Posi- 
tivists,  who  paved  the  way  for  the  new  literature. 
Balzac  was  the  fn-st.  His  work  marks  the  tran- 
sition    between     Romanticism     and     Naturalism. 

V 


PREFACE 

In  him  are  the  defects  of  exaggeration  of  both 
schools.  Certain  conceptions  and  ideas  of  his  are 
at  times  childishly,  monstrously  distorted,  suffi- 
ciently so  to  rank  him  with  the  worst  of  his  prede- 
cessors, while  at  other  times  again  he  thinks  and 
writes  with  a  power  so  violent  and  so  audacious, 
that  none  of  his  disciples  has  been  able  to  equal 
him  —  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  every  follower  is 
prone  to  exaggerate  the  manner  of  his  master. 
Zola  was  to  follow,  however. 

The  theater  —  if  we  except  certain  plays  of 
that  true  precursor  of  the  moderns,  Kmile  Augier, 
and  the  occasionally  inspired  priests  of  Dumas 
jils  —  was  confined  rigidly  within  certain  time- 
honored  conventions,  and  lay  like  a  lazybones  In 
a  warm  and  comfortable  bed.  The  theaters  of 
Paris  all  had  their  accepted  and  privileged  pur- 
veyors of  amusement,  and  their  intellectual  sloth 
was  in  turn  communicated  to  the  public  —  each 
supporting  the  other. 

Yet  a  deep-buried  desire  for  something  new  ex- 
isted somewhere  in  the  mind  of  the  public;  it  was 
latent,  unknown,  unconscious  —  but  it  was  so  real, 
so  sincere,  that  when  the  first  attempts  to  bring  the 
theater  into  a  closer  relation  with  life  were 
brought  to  the  stage,  these  were  greeted  with  cries 
of  joy  and  enthusiasm. 

It  is  Antoine's  chief  glory  to  ha\e  felt  this  de- 
sire, to  have  been  the  first  to  bring  it  to  its  full 
fruition.  From  the  moment  he  made  his  appear- 
ance, in  the  obscure  little  theater  in  the  Passage 
de  TKlysec  des  Beaux-arts,  dramatists  brought 
him  plays  in  which  they  too  had  endeavored  to  do 
away  with  the  old  conventions,  and  in  which  they 

vi 


PREFACE 

tried  to  affect  the  men  and  women  of  their  day 
through  sincere  work  reflecting  more  clearly  than 
ever  before  the  life  of  their  time.  All  these 
authors  existed,  no  doubt,  but  their  works  were  not 
produced,  their  manuscripts  were  not  even  read, 
and  it  is  not  diiiicult  to  believe  that  many  of  them 
would  have  faltered  and  failed  in  the  face  of  ever- 
lasting discouragement,  had  it  not  been  for  An- 
toine  who,  while  not  advertising  them  nor  ex- 
ploiting them,  merely  "  placed  "  them,  made  them 
feel  that  they  existed,  and  helped  them  to  realize 
their  individuality.  Without  attempting  to  guide 
or  directly  influence  them,  his  powerful  personality 
made  itself  felt  even  with  the  strongest-willed 
and  most  independent  of  his  co-workers.  His  un- 
rufiled  good  humor  in  the  face  of  the  protestations 
called  down  upon  his  head  by  the  new-school 
dramatists,  his  faith  In  himself  and  in  his  work, 
his  manner  of  accepting  the  most  patent  defeat  as 
the  most  brilliant  of  victories,  his  admirable  fight- 
ing^ spirit,  his  courage  —  all  this,  and  other  things 
besides  —  made  of  the  little  band  which  consti- 
tuted the  original  Theatre  Libre,  a  living  com- 
pany, an  insolent  band  of  enthusiasts  even,  an 
enemy  of  tinsel  and  false  glory  (and  at  times,  it 
rnust  be  confessed,  of  true  glory,  for  It  was  occa- 
sionally extreme  In  its  attitude)  but  always  ready 
for  a  struggle,  valiant  in  the  cause  of  truth,  of 
beauty,  of  poverty,  of  Independence:  fanatical  and 
brutal,  too.  In  a  word,  it  possessed  those  quali- 
ties which  attract  and  hold  the  attention  of  the  peo- 
ple at  large. 

Antolne  was  fortunate  as  a  revolutionary  in  that 
he  was  not  in  the  least  exclusive.      By  personal  In- 

vii 


PREFACE 

clination  and  taste  he  believed  in  a  realistic  expres- 
sion of  life,  yet  his  enthusiasm  for  the  "  play  of 
ideas  "  attracted  him  to  Francois  de  Curel,  and  for 
the  love  and  sex  drama  to  Georges  de  Porto-Riche. 

I  remember  —  with  what  a  thrill !  —  the  many 
pleasant  and  inspiring  evenings  I  have  spent  in  the 
company  of  these  enthusiasts.  Pitiless  like  all 
neophytes,  violent  as  well,  each  of  us  was  a  sort 
of  Polyeucte,  eager  to  smash  the  idols  of  the  past. 

The  influence  of  the  Theatre  Libre  upon  the 
development  of  the  theater  in  France  was  enor- 
mous. Even  those  who  opposed  it  most  bitterly, 
tried  later  to  imitate  it,  but  as  they  lacked  Faith, 
that  divinely  essential  Faith,  they  succeeded  in  imi- 
tating only  the  technical  methods:  they  were  cap- 
able only  of  copying  what  was  of  least  value  and. 
in  the  apt  words  of  Jules  Eemattre,  the  result 
was  a  "  nouveau  poncif  " — "  a  re-hashing  of  stale 
material." 

Now  Antoine — ^  who  would  believe  it?  —  An- 
toine  is  a  timid  man.  You  may  take  the  word  of 
one  who  has  known  him  intimately  for  a  quarter  of 
a  century.  In  the  early  days  Antoine  was  seized 
with  fear  in  the  presence  of  an  audience.  Those 
thousand  pairs  of  eyes,  often  enough  hill  of  mock- 
ery, at  times  distinctly  hostile,  were  the  source  of 
much  uneasiness  to  the  young  actor.  I  must  add 
that  at  times  there  was  imposed  on  him  the  difficult 
task  of  flinging  in  the  teeth  of  that  public  expres- 
sions which  were  particularly  daring  and  odious. 
Then,  in  order  to  escape  the  gaze  of  that  multitude, 
he  instinctivelv  turned  round  one  day,  and  contin- 
ued to  speak  his  lines,  his  back  turned  to  the  foot- 
lights.     Ihat  seemed  to  cap  the  climax.     At  the 

viii 


PREFACE 

Comedle  Francalse,  the  temple  of  dramatic  con- 
ventions, I  know  one  Theatre  Libre  dramatist  who 
was  once  very  much  irritated  because  the  actors, 
wishing  to  please  him,  rehearsed  with  their  backs 
turned  continually  to  the  audience  ! 

Antoine's  work  produced  more  important  and 
lasting  results.  He  it  was  who  for  the  first  time 
introduced  to  the  public  a  large  number  of  drama- 
tists hitherto  unknown,  many  of  whom  it  is  certain 
would  otherwise  never  have  had  a  hearing.  He 
was  the  first  to  bring  Ibsen  to  France,  and  Fran- 
gois  de  Curel  into  international  renown.  An- 
toine  showed  us  greater  and  finer  possibilities  in 
staging,  his  mise  en  scene  constituted  a  revolt 
against  the  old-fashioned  stage-sets,  many  of  which 
seemed  an  insult  to  the  artistic  sensibilities  of  the 
spectator.  He  reduced  the  number  of  stage  con- 
ventions, he  encouraged  and  successfully  produced 
the  works  of  new  authors,  and  taught  the  general 
public  to  look  for  and  appreciate  dramatic  work  of 
better  quality  and  nobler  inspiration  than  that  to 
which  it  had  as  a  rule  been  accustomed. 

It  is  not  his  fault  if  the  public  is  but  rarely  of- 
fered an  opportunity  to  develop  that  better  taste 
which  he  did  so  much  to  improve,  and  which  at 
times  seems  likely  to  disappear  for  want  of  suflii- 
cient  nutriment  I 

Brieux. 


IX 


SONNET  A  ANTOINE 

"  Le  theatre?  "  me  disiez-vous  au  coin  de  I'atre; 
"  Travail  de  fou  dans  la  pousslere   .   .   .   Kspoirs 

.   .   .   Degout  .   .   . 
Pauvrete  des  moyens   .   .   .   On  crie,  on  rage,  on 

bout  .   .   . 
(^a  n'y  est  pas!  .  .   .   C'est  du  carton  et  c'est  du 

platre!  " 

Et  puis,  un  souffle  passe  .  .  .  et  c'est  un  coin 
bleuatre 

Ou,  pendant  un  instant,  ^a  y  est,  tout  d'un  coup ! 

Et  c'est  qa, —  cet  instant  qui  console  de  tout, — 

"  C'est  ca,"  me  disiez-vous,  Antoine,  "  le  thea- 
tre!'" 

La  Vie  aussi,  mon  cher  ami.      Ce  n'est  que  pour 
Deux    ou    trois    beaux    instants    de    victoire    ou 

d'amour 
Que  le  Heros  reprend  sans  fin  sa  tentative. 

Soit!      Vous  la  reprendrez  demain,  grand  obstine ! 
Mais  un  de  ces  instants  qui  valent  que  Ton  vive, 
Je  crois  bien  que,  ce  soir,  Paris  vous  I'a  donne  ! 

Edmond  Rostand 


ANTOINE  AND  THE  "  FREE 
THEATER " 

The  "  Free  Theater  "  was  to  the  French  drama 
of  the  past  quarter  century  what  the  Reformation 
was  to  Christianity;  Andre  Antoine  was  its  Martin 
Luther.  Like  Luther,  this  energetic  Frenchman 
did  not  originate  or  invent  his  revolution,  he  merely 
happened  to  live  at  a  time  when  revolt  was  in  the 
air :  both  brought  to  a  head  a  number  of  symptoms 
and  eventually  formulated  the  ideas  of  their  time 
and  fixed  for  future  generations  those  ideas  which 
each  had  found  and  developed.  To  Antoine  it 
appeared  that  the  drama  of  his  day  was  fettered 
with  conventions  of  style,  technic,  and  subject- 
matter  to  such  an  extent  that  young  dramatists 
with  new  ideas  and  new  ways  of  expressing  them, 
had  little  or  no  opportunity  to  produce  their 
works.  The  founding  of  his  little  troupe  of  ama- 
teurs was  a  declaration  of  independence  from  the 
"  well-made  "  plays  of  Scribe  and  his  followers. 
The  experiment  was  so  successful  that  within  less 
than  ten  years  it  ceased  to  be  of  use,  and  died  of 
inertia.  The  forces  Antoine  was  combatting  ga\e 
way  before  him,  so  that  within  less  than  twenty 
years  he  found  that  as  director  of  the  Odeon 
Theater  —  surely  one  of  the  most  conventional  of 
Parisian  playhouses  !  —  he  was  able  to  mount  what 
plays  he  pleased  and  in  what  manner  seemed  best 
to  him. 

xi 


ANTOINE  AND 


The  nineteenth  century  was  one  of  the  most  fer- 
tile periods  in  the  history  of  the  French  stage. 
Beginning  with  the  Romanticists  —  Victor  Hugo, 
Dumas  pere,  Alfred  de  Vigny  —  contempor- 
aneous with  the  "  Vaudevillistcs,"  dominated  by 
the  commanding  Scribe,  there  arose  two  of  the 
most  original  and  revolutionary  of  modern  drama- 
tists:  Alexandre  Dumas  fils  and  £mile  Augier. 
They  were  the  originators  of  the  social  "  thesis  " 
play.  The  individual  in  conflict  with  society  and 
conventions  was  what  interested  these  moralists; 
their  influence  was  later  to  be  observed  in  the 
works  of  Ibsen  who,  it  will  be  seen,  in  turn  con- 
tributed largely  to  the  ideas  of  the  younger  writers 
of  Antoine's  movement.  Yet  the  general  trend  of 
the  nineteenth  century  was  toward  the  presenta- 
tion of  life  molded  into  a  more  or  less  conven- 
tional form.  The  school  of  Scribe,  in  which  Vic- 
torien  Sardou  was  the  greatest  scholar,  has  fur- 
nished models  of  technic  which  have  remained  to 
this  day. 

At  rare  intervals  there  arose  a  dramatist  who 
endeavored  to  get  a  little  closer  to  life,  delve  a  lit- 
tle deeper  into  human  motives  and  paint  with  a 
defter  hand  the  manners  of  his  day.  Balzac,  try- 
ing to  carry  into  the  realm  of  the  theater  some  of 
that  marvelous  power  of  observation  which  is  the 
chief  glory  of  his  masterpieces  of  fiction,  wrote 
one  play  which  was  a  forerunner  of  the  Antoine 
movement:  "  Mercadet  "  is  undeniably  crude,  yet 
its  very  crudity  lends  an  air  of  actuality  to  it  which 
is  lacking  even  in  some  of  the  best  plays  of  Dumas 
fils  and  Augier.     Another  novelist,   later  in  the 

xii 


THE  "  FREE  THEATER  " 


century,  turned  to  the  theater:  Zola's  "  Therese 
Raquin  "  is  a  tragedy  of  remorse,  which  was  to 
exercise  considerable  influence  over  the  younger 
generation.  At  a  time  when  the  stage  was  domin- 
ated by  conventions,  Henry  Becque  had  the  good 
fortune  to  have  his  two  masterpieces,  "  Les  Cor- 
beaux  "  and  "  La  Parisienne  "  ("  The  Vultures  " 
and  "The  Woman  of  Paris")  produced;  these 
uncompromising  and  occasionally  brutal  pictures, 
especially  the  former,  constitute,  in  the  words  of 
James  Huneker,  the  Bible  of  the  Naturalist 
School  of  drama.  With  a  profound  contempt  for 
formula  and  accepted  tradition,  for  every  trick  of 
the  trade,  Becque  wrote  with  no  other  idea  than  to 
create  living  people,  allowing  them  only  so  much 
of  a  plot  as  should  be  necessary  to  demonstrate 
their  thoughts  and  consequent  acts.  For  many 
years  he  unsuccessfully  submitted  his  manuscripts 
to  managers,  but  in  the  'eighties  his  efforts  brought 
forth  fruit.  Their  intrinsic,  apart  from  historical 
value,  is  clearly  seen  in  the  fact  that  both  plays 
continue  to  draw  large  audiences  at  the  Comedie 
Francaise  and  the  Odeon. 

Antoine  is  a  bourgeois,  a  bourgeois  of  the  solid, 
forceful,  intelligent  type  of  Brieux.  With  an  al- 
most brutal  and  dogged  air  of  strength,  he  gives 
the  impression  of  one  who  —  endowed  with  a 
vision  —  will  move  mountains  anci  override  his 
subordinates  without  appearing  to  notice  the  re- 
sult of  his  assiduity.  Seated  in  his  office  at  the 
Odeon  one  evening,  I  was  at  liberty  to  observe  at 
close  quarters  his  personal  appearance.  A  tall 
man,  with  a  marked  stoop,  his  small  blue  eyes  set 

xiii 


ANTOINE  AND 


wide  apart,  his  large  checks  resting  upon  a  stiff 
high  collar,  he  spoke  with  gruff  geniality,  and 
straight  to  the  point. 

"  The  '  Theatre  Tibre,'  men  Dieu !  It  seems 
like  ancient  history!  Well  —  here's  all  the  ma- 
terial you  want.  Tve  kept  the  files  —  in  there  is 
a  room  full  of  letters!  I  may  publish  them  some 
day,  but,  vous  savez?  it's  the  devil  of  a  job! 
Take  what  you  like. 

"  You  asked  me  in  your  letter  whether  the 
choice  of  typical  plays  of  the  '  Theatre  Libre  '  you 
had  made  is  a  good  one?  Yes,  Curel  and  An- 
cey  and  Jullien  are  representative,  while  Porto- 
Riche  may  serve  to  show  something  of  the  variety 
I  attempted  to  make  in  our  programs.  Brieux,  of 
course  Brieux  is  '  Theatre  Libre,'  but  I  understand 
he  is  already  known  in  your  country." 

And  briefly,  but  courteously,  Antoine  outlined 
his  ^Vork,  in  somewhat  the  following  manner. 
The  main  facts  I  have  gleaned  from  stray  articles 
and  historical  compilations,  but  I  have  tried  to 
enter  into  the  spirit  of  the  subject  from  Antoine's 
point  of  view,  and  make  what  reservations  I  am 
forced  to  when  that  spirit  seems  in  direct  opposi- 
tion to  the  truth. 

Andre  Antoine  was  born  in  1858  at  Limoges. 
He  was  sent  to  school  at  Paris  at  an  early  age,  but 
was  forced  to  go  to  work  in  an  office  at  the  age  of 
thirteen.  In  1877  ^^  became  an  employee  of  the 
Gas  Company  at  Paris,  where  he  remained,  with 
the  exception  of  the  years  spent  in  military  service, 
until  his  resignation,  ten  years  later,  when  he 
founded  his  little  theater.  Antoine  was  always 
deeply  interested  in  theatrical  matters;  as  a  child 

xiv 


THE  " FREE  THEATER " 


he  attended  classses  in  declamation  and  acting, 
and  once  aspired  to  enter  the  august  Conserva- 
toire, but  failed  to  pass  the  preliminary  examina- 
tion. His  vigorous  natural  acting,  though  lack- 
ing the  polish  necessary  for  entrance  into  the 
school  of  which  he  wished  to  become  a  member, 
never  failed  to  impress  the  small  audiences  gath- 
ered together  to  witness  the  occasional  amateur 
productions  organized  by  the  young  enthusiast. 
From  his  little  "  Gymnase  de  la  parole  "  he  passed 
into  the  "  Cercle  Gaulois,"  another,  slightly  more 
ambitious,  dramatic  club.  This  club  produced 
conventional  plays,  against  which  Antoine  was 
soon  to  revolt.  "  Of  what  use  "  he  said,  "  is  it  to 
give  plays  which  can  be  seen  anywhere?" 
Krauss,  the  director  of  the  "  Cercle,"  was  unwill- 
ing to  produce  new  works,  so  that  Antoine  was 
forced  to  secede  and  found  what  he  called  the 
"  Theatre  Libre  " —  or  Free  Theater.  In  the  tiny 
improvised  playhouse  in  the  Rue  de  I'Elysee  des 
Beaux-Arts,  on  the  "  Butte  de  Montmartre,"  on 
the  evening  of  March  30,  1887,  took  place  the 
first  production  of  the  new  society.  "  Made- 
moiselle Pomme  "  by  Duranty  and  Paul  Alexis; 
"  Un  Prefet,"  by  Arthur  Byl;  "  Jacques  Damour," 
by  Leon  Hennique  after  Zola ;  and  "  La  Cocarde," 
by  Jules  Vidal  —  two  comedies  and  tv/o  "  dramas," 
each  In  one  act — these  constituted  the  opening 
spectacle.  With  the  exception  of  "  Jacques 
Damour,"  the  performance  was  a  failure.  All 
the  heartrending  mishaps  Incident  to  amateur  per- 
formances seemed  destined  to  occur  on  that  fatal 
night.  Had  it  not  been  for  the  profound  impres- 
sion created  by  the   Hennlque-Zola   sketch,   it   is 

XV 


ANTOINE  AND 


doubtful  whether  the  Free  Theater  would  have 
continued. 

Antoine  had  spent  all  his  salary,  and  something 
besides,  to  mount  the  first  performance  on  March 
30,  but  he  determined  to  tempt  Providence  once 
more,  and  on  the  next  convenient  payday,  just  two 
months  later,  he  presented  two  more  plays:  "  La 
Nuit  Bergamesque,"  a  verse  comedy  by  the  poet 
Emile  Bergerat,  and  a  one-act  "  serious  "  play  by 
Oscar  Metenier,  "  En  Famille."  The  first  per- 
formance had  attracted  little  attention,  but  that 
in  May  brought  among  others,  Francisque  Sarcey, 
Emile  Zola,  and  Alphonse  Daudet,  "  Contempo- 
rary dramatic  art,"  says  one  enthusiastic  historian, 
"  was  born  that  evening."  But  if  that  is  a  slight 
exaggeration,  we  may  be  assured  that  Antoine  be- 
lieved that  it  had,  for  he  resigned  from  his  posi- 
tion with  the  Gas  Company  in  order  to  devote  his 
entire  time  and  energy  to  the  direction  of  his  thea- 
ter. Sending  out  an  appeal  to  many  writers  who 
thought  they  had  original,  unconventional  plays, 
plays  which  no  manager  in  Paris  was  willing  to  ac- 
cept at  the  time,  he  received  a  great  many  manu- 
scripts during  the  summer  of  1887.  That  sum- 
mer was  occupied  with  many  cares:  a  new  theater 
—  the  "  Gaite  Montparnasse  " —  had  to  be  fitted 
up,  subscriptions  to  a  series  of  performances  taken, 
and  no  end  of  minor  matters  attended  to.  It  is 
recorded  that  Antoine  carried  his  subscription 
blanks  to  the  homes  of  those  who  might  be  inter- 
ested in  the  project,  in  order  to  save  postage. 

By  October,  Antoine  had  secured  only  thirty-five 
subscriptions.  In  order  to  escape  the  vigilance  of 
the  censor,  his  performances  were  made  private: 

xvi 


THE  " FREE  THEATER " 


individuals  voluntarily  subscribed  and  were  "  in- 
vited "  to  the  theater.  On  October  12  was  the 
first  regular  subscription  performance  of  the  Free 
Theater.  "  Soeur  Philomene,"  a  naturalistic  play 
based  upon  the  novel  by  the  brothers  de  Goncourt, 
and  "  L'Evasion,"  a  play  in  one  act  by  Villiers  de 
risle  Adam,  made  up  that  program.  A  month 
later  Antoine  introduced  to  his  audience  one  of  the 
typical  Free  Theater  plays,  "  Esther  Brandes,"  by 
Leon  Hennique.  On  December  23,  the  "  Genre 
Theatre  Libre  "  became  permanently  fixed  in  Jean 
Jullien's  "  La  Serenade." 

By  this  time  the  Theater  began  to  attract  wide- 
spread attention,  and  before  long  it  became  a  veri- 
table storm-center  of  literary  schools  and  sects. 
The  progressives  and  reactionaries  took  sides  ag- 
gressively, and  battles  waged.  The  result  was  a 
happy  one  for  Antoine  and  his  theater.  He 
thrived  on  abuse  and  adverse  criticism.  Sarcey, 
the  exponent  of  the  "  well-made  "  play  and  despot 
of  the  theatrical  world,  shrieked  aloud  that  the 
new  pieces  were  simply  not  plays  —  by  which  he 
meant  that  they  were  not  plays  of  the  Scribe-Sar- 
dou  school.      Which  they  were  not. 

Not  content  with  introducing  French  plays 
alone,  Antoine  mounted  Tolstoy's  "  The  Power  of 
Darkness"  (February  10,  1888).  This  aroused 
a  good  deal  of  excitement.^     The  production  of 

1  Before  this  play  was  produced,  Antoine  received  a  number 
of  letters  from  dramatists  and  critics.  Among  these  were  pro- 
tests from  three  masters  of  the  stage  of  the  day.  Emile  Augier 
says:  "It  is  less  a  play  than  a  novel  in  dialogue,  the  length  of 
which  would  render  it  insupportable  on  our  French  stage." 
Dumas  fils  says:  "From  the  point  of  view  of  our  French  stage, 
I    do   not   think   Tolstoy's   play    possible.     It    is   too    pessimistic; 

xvii 


ANTOINE  AND 


this  play  was  of  Incalculable  benefit  to  the  French 
stage  :  it  demonstrated  first  that  a  so-called  "  un- 
dramatic  "  play  could  be  made  interesting  and  ef- 
fective on  the  stage,  and  it  paved  the  way  for  the 
production  of  the  masterpieces  of  foreign  con- 
temporary drama  in  a  country  which  is  to  this  day 
only  too  ready  to  ignore  foreign  works  on  the 
ground  that  France  still  leads  the  world  in  the 
realm  of  the  theater. 

Antoine's  productions  of  Tolstoy,  Ibsen,  Strind- 
bcrg,  and  Bjornson,  have  done  much  for  the  edu- 
cation of  the  modern  French  critic  and  theater- 
goer, coming  at  a  time  when  the  country  was  so 
far  behind  contemporary  European  dramatic  liter- 
ature. 

The  first  season's  significant  contributions  were 
"  La  Serenade,"  of  which  further  mention  will  be 
made  later,  and  "  The  Power  of  Darkness."  Yet 
a  word  should  be  said  of  Gustave  Guiches  and 
Henry  Lavedan,  whose  "  quarts  d'heure,"  —  light 
fragmentary  scenes,  satirical  commentaries  on  so- 
ciety —  opened  the  way  for  these  two  dramatists, 
and  constituted  a  veritable  theatrical  debut. 
Lavedan,  later  in  "  Le  Nouveau  jeu  "  and  "  Le 
Prince  d'Aurec  "  did  little  more  than  enlarge  upon 
his  scenes  and  construct  some  sort  of  plot  upon 
which  they  might  be  strung.  Gustave  Guiches, 
one  of  the  most  powerful  of  the  less  original 
dramatic  writers  of  to-day,  if  he  did  not  follow  in 
the  footsteps  of  his  early  collaborator,  was  at  least 

there  is  not  a  single  sympathetic  character  .  .  ."  Sardou  says: 
"  It  is  cruelly  beautiful  atui  essentially  true,  but  it  is  written  to 
be  read  and  not  seen.  In  my  opinion  it  is  not  playable.  F-very- 
thing  that  can  be  done  to  make  it  possible  for  the  stage  will  re- 
sult only  in  spoiling  it.  .  .  ." 

xviii 


THE  "  FREE  THEATER  " 


encouraged  to  write  plays,  which  have  been  seen 
on  the  best  stages  in  Paris. 

The  end  of  the  first  subscription  year  found  An- 
toine  poor  in  pocket,  but  correspondingly  rich  in 
experience;  the  seven  productions  —  in  which  sev- 
enteen plays  figured  —  had  exhausted  his  small 
capital,  and  again  the  indefatigable  producer  faced 
a  financial  problem.  Yet  before  the  question  be- 
came very  serious  he  found  that  the  number  of 
subscribers  had  become  so  great  that  he  had  to  find 
a  larger  theater  in  order  to  accommodate  them. 
He  then  engaged  the  "  Theatre  des  Menus- 
Plalsirs,"  remodeled  it,  and  started  his  second  sea- 
son. By  this  time  the  little  band  of  amateurs, 
under  the  dictatorial  head  of  Antoine,  had  come  to 
be  recognized  as  a  highly  efficient  company  of 
original  actors.  The  plays,  owing  to  their  sub- 
ject-matter and  unconventional  treatment  of  new 
themes,  had  attracted  so  much  attention  that  even 
old  and  hardened  theater-goers  flocked  to  the 
Menus-Plaisirs,  if  only  to  scoff. 

Late  in  the  year  1888  Georges  de  Porto-Riche, 
known  previously  to  that  time  as  the  author  of  a 
few  slight  volumes  of  poems  and  four  or  five  not 
very  successful  poetic  dramas,  saw  his  "  Chance  de 
FranQoise  "  produced  by  the  Free  Theater.  The 
immediate  success  of  this  delicate  little  comedy 
doubtless  encouraged  its  author  to  write  his  great- 
est play,  "  Amoureuse,"  which  saw  the  stage  not 
long  after.  Another  important  play  of  the  second 
season  was  Leon  Hennique's  noble  historical  trag- 
edy, "  La  Mort  du  Due  d'Enghien."  Neither 
of  these  plays  was  what  is  known  as  the  "  genre 

xix 


ANTOINE  AND 


Theatre  Libre  " —  as  Jullien's  "  La  Serenade  " 
was  —  nor  was  Catulle  Mendes'  "  La  Reine  Fiam- 
mette,"  which  was  in  verse.  These  plays,  to- 
gether with  the  Goncourts'  "  La  Patrie  en 
danger,"  serve  further  to  iUustrate  that  Antoine 
was  not  trying  to  destroy  the  old  so  much  as  to 
make  way  for  the  new,  and  at  the  same  time,  ac- 
cept so  much  of  the  old  as  was  sincere  and  beauti- 
ful. However,  Zola,  with  "  Madeleine  "  con- 
tinued the  tradition  of  the  Naturalists.  Georges 
Ancey,  the  author  of  "  La  Dupe,"  was  trying  his 
wings  with  a  three-act  comedy,  "  Les  Insepar- 
ables." 

The  seasons  from  1888  to  1893  inclusive 
marked  the  period  of  greatest  activity  and  con- 
tributed the  largest  number  of  good  plays  of  the 
entire  Antoine  movement.  About  ninety  plays 
were  produced,  most  of  them  new  French  works, 
although  Hauptmann,  Ibsen,  Turgenev,  Bjornson, 
Strindberg,  and  Tolstoy  were  represented  by  some 
of  their  best  works. 

The  season  of  1889-90  was  one  of  the  most 
fruitful  and  historically  important  of  the  series: 
Ibsen's  "  Ghosts,"  Bricux's  "  Menages  d'artistes," 
and  Jean  Aicard's  "  Le  Pere  Lebonnard  "  were  all 
seen  for  the  first  time  in  France.  Brieux  cer- 
tainly owes  a  great  deal  to  Antoine.  When  he  was 
editing  a  small  newspaper  in  Rouen  he  sent  the 
manuscript  of  his  first  play  of  distinct  merit  to  the 
new  theater.  Antoine  accepted  and  played 
"  Menages  d'artistes  "  and  encouraged  the  young 
author  to  send  further  plays.  The  next  was 
"  Blanchette,"  one  of  the  finest  achievements  of  its 
gifted     and    vigorous     author.      It     is     doubtful 

XX 


THE  "  FREE  THEATER  " 


whether  Brieux  would  have  continued  to  write  his 
second  play  had  it  not  been  for  Antoine's  encour- 
agement. In  his  dedication  of  "  Blanchette  " 
Brieux  says:  "My  Dear  Friend,  For  ten  years 
I  peddled  my  plays  to  every  manager  in  Paris; 
more  often  than  not,  they  were  not  even  read. 
Thanks  to  you,  thanks  to  the  '  Theatre  Libre,'  I 
am  at  last  able  to  learn  my  business  as  a  dramatist, 
and  now  here  Is  the  second  of  my  plays  which  you 
have  produced.     I  wish  to  thank  you  In  public." 

Jean  Aicard,  poet  of  the  South,  though  not  pri- 
marily a  dramatist,  has  written  at  least  one  play  of 
superlative  merit:  "  Le  Pere  Lebonnard  "  has 
been  seen,  since  it  was  first  produced  by  Antolne,  In 
nearly  every  theatrical  center  of  the  world,  and  still 
remains  In  the  repertory  of  the  Comedle  Francaise 
and  In  that  of  the  great  Italian  actor,  Ermete 
Novelh. 

Pierre  Wolff,  one  of  the  best-known  dramatists 
of  to-day,  was  another  whose  plays  were  first  ac- 
cepted and  produced  at  the  Free  Theater.  In 
France,  "  Le  Secret  de  Polichinelle  "  and  "  Le 
Ruisseau  "  are  considered  among  the  best  and  most 
charming  works  of  the  day.  In  the  United  States 
Madame  Nazlmova  played  In  M.  Wolff's  recent 
comedy,  "  Les  Marionettes." 

Georges  Courteline,  Paul  GInisty,  Francois  de 
Curel,  Albert  Guinon,  and  Romain  Coolus,  un- 
known In  the  early  'nineties,  all  debutants  at  the 
Free  Theater,  have  since  achieved  distinct  success. 
Of  these,  Curel  is  by  all  odds  the  most  significant. 
There  Is  little  doubt  that  such  writers  as  Courteline 
and  Coolus,  and  perhaps  Guinon  and  GInisty, 
would   have   attained   the   rank  of   "  successful  " 

xxi 


ANTOINE  AND 


dramatists,  but  had  it  not  been  for  the  foresight 
and  determined  energy  of  Antoine,  Curel  would 
probably  have  never  had  a  hearing.  Antoine  liter- 
ally forced  a  hearing  for  the  earlier  works  of  this 
writer. 

The  pioneer  work  of  the  Free  Theater  was  soon 
accomplished:  in  1887  '^  small  revolutionary  pro- 
test led  by  a  comparatively  obscure  amateur,  by 
1894,  it  had  begun  to  decline.  So  well  had  An- 
toine combatted  the  conventions  he  had  set  him- 
self to  destroy,  that  seven  years  after  the  attack  his 
enemies  had  for  the  most  part  become  friends  or  at 
least  distant  admirers  and  sympathizers,  or  else 
imitators.  Many  reasons  have  been  suggested  to 
account  for  the  decadence  of  the  Theater:  com- 
mercialism, tours,  lack  of  good  actors  for  want  of 
funds,  poor  choice  of  plays  —  but  the  fact  is  that 
the  public  had  become  accustomed  to  the  novelty 
of  the  ideas  set  forth  by  the  new  movement:  every 
one  became  in  a  sense  revolutionary,  so  that  there 
was  nothing  to  revolt  against. 

The  commercial  theaters,  seeing  that  the  plays 
of  the  Free  Theater  dramatists  were  valuable,  at 
once  received  Brieux,  Wolff,  Curel,  Porto-Riche, 
and  Courteline,  with  open  arms.  Fhe  actors, 
trained  by  Antoine,  could  not  be  kept  together 
on  the  small  salaries  which  were  the  natural  re- 
sult of  the  very  limited  number  of  productions  — 
two  only  of  each  new  play.  They  went  forth  and 
without  difficulty  obtained  lucrative  positions  in 
many  of  the  best  theaters  in  Paris. 

Realizing  that  his  work  was  over,  Antoine  re- 
signed in  1896,  lca^'ing  his  theater  —  re-named 
the  "  Theatre  Antoine  " —  in  the  hands  of  Laro- 

xxii 


THE  "  FREE  THEATER  " 


chelle,  and  became  an  actor.  But  in  1906  he  ac- 
cepted the  directorship  of  the  Odeon.  For  over 
seven  years  he  struggled  against  insufficient  subsi- 
dies, and  now  has  to  his  credit  a  large  number  of 
new  productions,  besides  some  of  the  worthiest  of 
classical  revivals  as  director  of  this  government 
theater.  As  this  book  is  about  to  go  to  press,  the 
news  comes  from  Paris  that  Antoine,  worn  out 
with  his  gigantic  task  and  ruined  financially,  has  re- 
signed.^ 

Among  the  numerous  followers  of  Antoine, 
Lugne-Poe  and  his  "  Theatre  de  TOeuvre  "  should 
first  be  mentioned.  This  society  is  one  of  the 
most  important  in  the  world.  For  over  twenty 
years  the  indefatigable  "  Lugne  "  has  made  it  a 
point  to  introduce  new  and  original  French  plays  as 
well  as  foreign  works.  These  he  has  produced  in 
Paris  for  short  runs,  but  his  greatest  contribu- 
tion to  the  art  of  the  theater  has  been  his  long 
and  extended  tours:  in  Africa,  England,  South 
America,    Russia,    Belgium,    Germany,    Servia  — 

2  In  a  letter  to  the  Figaro,  dated  April  8,  1914,  he  writes  to 
the  Minister  of  Public  Instruction  and  Fine  Arts:  "  M.  le 
Ministre:  I  regret  that  I  have  to  ask  you  to  accept  my  resig- 
nation. The  various  solutions  we  discussed  during  the  meet- 
ing yesterday  have  not  by  this  morning  come  to  pass.  It  was 
unavoidable  that  I  should  be  unable  to  cope  with  these  over- 
whelming financial  obligations.  At  this  juncture  I  see  no  other 
course  open  to  me  but  the  one  I  am  pursuing.  I  leave  the 
Odeon  with  many  regrets  in  spite  of  the  seven  abominable  years 
I  have  spent  there.  In  spite  of  your  kind  assistance  during  these 
past  few  days  the  production  of  '  Psyche  '  [Moliere's]  last  night 
cost  me  much  more  than  the  figure  of  the  receipts.  I  must 
therefore  courageously  face  the  prospect  of  giving  up  my  dream 
of  a  prosperous  art-theater,  and  apply  myself  energetically  to 
solving  a  terrible  problem  wherein  I  shall  lose  my  honor  as  a 
business  man  and  the  decoration  so  kindly  given  me  by  the  lib- 
erality of  the  Government.     Yours,  etc.,  Andre  Antoine." 

xxiii 


ANTOINE  AND 


nearly  every  country  except  the  United  States. 
Lugne-Poe  it  was  who  first  introduced  Maeterlinck, 
to  the  French,  and  the  world  at  large;  he  has  like- 
wise mounted  hundreds  of  plays,  among  them  the 
most  typical  works  of  the  German,  Russian,  and 
Scandinavian  schools.  Of  late,  his  special 
matinees  in  Paris  have  afforded  the  somewhat  blase 
audiences  of  that  city  the  opportunity  of  becoming 
acquainted  with  Synge.  The  "  Playboy  of  the 
Western  World,"  given  in  the  "  Theatre  Antoine  " 
by  the  "  Theatre  de  I'Oeuvre  "  in  December  19 13, 
served  at  least  to  open  the  eyes  of  the  French  to  the 
fact  that  there  was  a  drama  in  Ireland,  even  if  the 
production  left  much  to  be  desired.  Lugne-Poe 
determined  to  show  his  people  that  France  was 
not  the  only  country  in  the  world  which  was  im- 
portant theatrically,  has  continued  fearlessly  and 
intelligently  to  force  his  compatriots  to  recognize 
the  value  of  the  foreigners. 

A  word  may  be  said  at  this  point  of  a  few  other 
similar  ventures.  The  first,  the  "  Cercle  des 
l^scholiers,"  founded  at  the  same  time  as  the  Free 
Theater,  is  a  private  association,  founded  by  and 
now  under  the  leadership  of  M.  Georges  Bour- 
don —  of  the  "  Figaro  " —  to  whom  I  am  indebted 
for  a  good  deal  of  information  on  his  own  theater 
as  well  as  on  the  Antoine  venture.  The  "  Theatre 
d'Art,"  Carre's  "  Matinees  du  jeudi,"  Jacques 
Rouche's  "  Theatre  des  Arts,"  and  Jacques 
Copeau's  "  Theatre  du  Vieux-colombier,"  foumled 
about  a  year  ago,  may  all  be  traced  to  the  inlluence 
of  the  Free  Theater. 


XXIV 


THE  "  FREE  THEATER  " 


THE    THEORY    OF    THE    FREE    THEATER 

Antoine  founded  his  Free  Theater  with  the  idea 
of  inducing  new  and  original  dramatists  to  present 
works  which  the  prejudice  of  managers  and  public 
otherwise  kept  from  the  stage.  The  French  stage 
of  the  day  was  so  conventional  that  only  plays 
written  according  to  accepted  standards  would  at- 
tract audiences.  At  least,  this  is  what  the  man- 
agers thought  —  and  the  result  was  the  same. 
Together  with  conventional  plays  went  conven- 
tional acting  and  conventional  stage-setting. 

Antoine  felt  that  all  this  was  wrong,  and  he  set 
it  right.  Adolphe  Thalasso  briefly  sums  up  the 
"  esthetique  "  of  the  new  theater  in  his  "  Le  Thea- 
tre Libre  "  (Mercure  de  France,  1909)  :  "  Plays 
in  which  life  supplies  movement  begin  to  take  the 
place  of  those  in  which  movement  supplied  life. 
Complicated  plots  give  way  to  simple  stories;  the 
play  of  intrigue  is  offset  by  the  study  of  reality; 
characters  become  natural,  classic;  the  tragic  and 
comic  are  no  longer  mingled;  the  genres  have  be- 
come distinct.  Interminable,  vagarious  plays  give 
way  to  short,  concise,  rapid  ones.  The  tirade  dis- 
appears; bombast  and  bathos  are  relegated  to  the 
background  ...  no  more  '  raisonneurs  '  .  .  . 
facts  alone  explain  the  philosophy  of  the  piece. 
The  eternally  sympathetic  and  benevolent  charac- 
ter is  likewise  driven  out.  The  authors  go  to  the 
very  sources  of  life  for  the  morality  of  their  plays. 
So  much  the  worse  for  morality  if  their  '  moral  ' 
is  immoral!  Such  Is  life  —  and  the  theater 
should  be  not  an  amusement,  but  an  Image  of  life. 
Technical  gymnastics  are  thrown  aside :  the  hu- 

XXV 


ANTOINE  AND 


man  heart  needs  more  than  tricks  of  the  trade  in 
order  to  be  explained.  .  .  .  The  theater  of  to-day 
must  be  a  revolt  against  that  of  yesterday.  As  in 
all  revolutions,  there  is  a  good  deal  of  exaggera- 
tion, for  the  new  methods  are  driven  home  with 
hammering  blows.  To  attain  the  desired  end,  the 
revolutionists  overstep  the  limit,  and  in  striking 
down  the  guilty,  the  innocent  are  not  spared." 

This  at  least  is  a  fairly  accurate  statement  of 
the  theory  of  the  Free  Theater,  but  the  theory,  it 
goes  without  saying,  was  not  always  lived  up  to. 
Scribe  and  Sardou  were  too  deeply  imbedded  in 
the  consciousness  of  the  French  nation  to  allow  a 
few  reformers  to  escape  their  influence.  The  long 
speeches,  tirades,  asides,  and  soliloquies  which 
the  innovators  scorned  —  in  theory  —  are  often  to 
be  found  in  the  earlier  plays  of  JuUien,  Curel, 
Ancey,  and  Brieux.  Yet  those  finer  qualities  —  a 
love  of  truth  in  the  analysis  of  character,  a  desire 
to  get  nearer  to  the  life  and  motives  of  the  average 
human  being  which  were  encouraged  by  Antoine, 
—  were,  in  spite  of  occasional  slips  and  back-slid- 
ings,  early  manifested,  and  to  this  day  have  borne 
rich  fruit. 

THE    ACTING 

The  Free  Theater  evolved  a  style  of  acting  all 
its  own.  That  style  may  be  called  Naturalistic. 
Its  greatest  contribution  was  largely  a  negative 
one.  It  constituted  a  protest  against  the  Con- 
servatoire, where  the  art  of  acting  was  handed 
down  by  tradition  from  one  famous  actor  to  the 
next.  There  was  one  way  of  acting  Harpagon, 
or  Tartufe,   or  Phedre,  and  only  one  way;  the 

xxvi 


THE  "  FREE  THEATER  " 


students  at  the  Conservatoire  received  their  in- 
struction from  pupils  of  Samson  or  Got  or  Talma, 
who  in  turn  had  received  them  from  the  great 
actors  of  their  generation.  The  process  tended 
to  eliminate  originality,  although  it  produced  an 
average  of  finished  work  which  in  the  French 
classics  is  at  least  admissible.  But  with  the  ad- 
vent of  a  new  school  of  drama,  a  new  school  of 
acting  was  indispensable. 

When  Antoine  dared  to  turn  his  back  to  the 
audience,  the  audience  jeered.  To-day  there  is 
scarcely  an  actor  in  Paris  who  has  not  learned  from 
Antoine.  Antoine  knew  what  he  was  about,  and 
so  well  did  he  insinuate  his  new  ideas  into  the  com- 
pany, that  before  long  his  actors  left  him  and  en- 
tered the  large  commercial  theaters  on  the  boule- 
vards. Nearly  every  theater  in  Paris,  including 
the  Comedie  Francaise  and  the  Odeon,  either  has 
at  present  or  has  had  within  the  past  iew  years, 
at  least  one  former  Free  Theater  actor  in  its  staff 
of  players. 

THE    DRAMATISTS 

The  mere  enumeration  of  dramatic  writers 
whose  first  works  (or  first  save  one)  were  heard 
at  the  Free  Theater  would  fill  four  pages.  Of 
those  dramatists  who  are  to-day  either  in  the 
front  rank  of  accepted  playwrights  may  be  men- 
tioned: Brieux,  Curel,  Coolus,  Courteline,  Mar- 
cel Prevost,  Lucien  Descaves,  Lavedan,  Porto- 
Riche,  Gustave  Guiches,  Andre  Picard,  Pierre 
Wolff,  Emile  Fabre,  Paul  Ginisty,  Armand  Eph- 
raim,  and  Jean  Aicard.  Among  those  who  are  no 
longer  writing,  but  who  largely  contributed  to  the 
xxvii 


ANTOINE  AND 


founding  of  the  movement  and  standardizing  of 
the  new  methods,  are:  Jean  JuUien,  Georges 
Ancey,  Paul  Alexis,  Emile  Zola,  Gaston  Salandri, 
Henry  Ceard,  Leon  Hennique,  the  Goncourts,  and 
Villiers  de  I'lsle  Adam. 

Br'icux. —  Eugene  Brieux  (born  1858  at  Paris) 
is  a  true  son  of  the  Free  Theater.  His  first  im- 
portant play,  "  Menages  d'Artistes  "  was  fairly 
successful,  and  the  encouragement  received  from 
this  first  production  was  largely  instrumental  in 
starting  his  theatrical  career.  "  Blanchette  " 
(1892)  •"'  Avas  one  of  the  greatest  successes  of  the 
day,  and  Is  now  frequently  revived  at  the  Comedie 
Francaise  and  in  the  provinces.  Brieux's  vigor- 
ous and  straightforward  manner  of  attacking  the 
social  abuses  of  his  time  was  in  all  likelihood  fos- 
tered by  the  freedom  from  restraint  which  was 
the  chief  glory  of  the  Free  Theater.  That 
"  Damaged  Goods  "  and  "  The  Red  Robe  "  and 
"  The  Three  Daughters  of  M.  Dupont  "  have 
been  accepted  by  the  theater-going  publics  of  the 
most  Important  nations  of  the  world  is  to  some  ex- 
tent due  to  Antolne. 

Franqois  de  Curel. — Viscount  Franqols  de  Curel 
(born  1854  at  Metz)  Is  without  doubt  the  most 
original  and  clear-minded  dramatist  of  recent 
times.  His  comparatively  few  plays  deal  almost 
exclusively  with  abnormal  human  characteristics; 
were  they  not  treated  from  the  psychological  view- 
point and  written  in  a  literary  though  thoroughly 
dramatic  style  they  would  be  termed  melodramas. 
"  L'Envers   d'une    Sainte,"    his   first   play,    is   an 

3  "  Blanchette  "  would  have  been  included  in  the  present  vol- 
ume had  it  not  already  appeared  in  the  Fall  of  1913: 
"Blanchette  and  the  Escape"  (Luce). 

xxviii 


THE  " FREE  THEATER " 


extraordinary  and  noble  study  of  a  woman's  con- 
science; it  is  a  distinct  contribution  to  criminal  psy- 
chology. "  Le  Repas  du  Lion  "  is  another  study 
in  the  grac^ual  metamorphosis  of  a  conscience. 
His  latest  play  (winter  19 14)  "  La  Danse  devant 
le  JMiroir  "  is  one  of  the  most  daring  and  searching 
analyses  of  the  mind  and  heart  of  a  young  girl  in 
the  realm  of  French  drama;  beside  it,  Henri  Ba- 
taille's  "  La  Vierge  folle  "  is  pale  and  unconvinc- 
ing. A  slow  worker,  holding  himself  aloof  from 
society,  from  the  world  of  the  practical  theater, 
caring  little  for  the  conventions  of  the  stage,  Curel 
is  not  a  popular  idol.  He  is  respected  by  the 
many,  warmly  appreciated  by  the  few. 

"  Les  Fossiles  "  was  presented  in  its  original 
form  at  the  Free  Theater  in  1892.  The  play 
was  badly  cast  so  that  the  performance  was  a  fail- 
ure, but  in  1900,  after  some  revision,  it  was  given 
a  fair  hearing  at  the  Comedie  Fran^aise,  and 
achieved  considerable  success.  "  Les  Fossiles  " 
comes  the  nearest  of  any  of  its  author's  plays  to 
the  popular  conception  of  what  a  play  should  be. 
There  is  more  action  and  less  abstract  psychology 
in  it  than  in  any  other  Curel  work,  yet  the  basic 
idea  is  never  for  a  moment  sacrificed  for  theatrical 
effects.  Curel,  an  aristocrat  himself,  is  enough 
of  an  artist  to  adopt  a  transcendental  point  of  view 
and  comment  upon  the  nobility  of  the  time.  "  Les 
Fossiles  "  is  the  story  of  a  noble  family  which 
gives  up  life,  happiness  and  even  individual  honor 
in  order  to  save  the  family  name.  The  aspira- 
tions, struggles,  above  all,  that  undying,  deep- 
rooted  desire  to  live  in  the  future  are  pictured  in 
this  play  with  unforgettable  vividness.     Besides  be- 

xxix 


ANTOINE  AND 


ing  a  comment  on  and  a  picture  of  life,  the  play 
contains  an  ideal:  Robert  de  Chantemelle  in  his 
will  and  in  his  life,  attempts  to  direct  the  energies 
of  his  family  from  becoming  fossilized  to  the 
nobler  realization  of  their  duties  to  society  and  the 
State.  If  the  play  contains  a  lesson  at  all  it  is 
that. 

Jeau  Jullieu. — Jean  J'-iHien  (born  at  Lyon, 
1 854)  fixed  the  style  of  the  Free  Theater  play  once 
for  all  in  "  La  Serenade."  His  plays,  and  more 
especially  his  theories  "*  —  that  "  a  play  is  a  slice  of 
life  presented  artistically  on  the  stage  "  is  his  best- 
known —  became  at  once  a  sort  of  confession  of 
faith  for  the  Theater.  "  La  Serenade  "  (1887) 
stands  for  the  younger  generation,  which  stood  for 
the  presentation  in  all  its  ugliness  of  the  "  other 
side  "  of  life.  Its  brutality,  its  exaggeration,  its 
sordidness,  are  not  so  much  signs  of  a  positive 
philosophy  of  life,  as  a  savage  revolt  against  the 
lay-figures  of  the  conventional  drama  of  the  nine- 
teenth century;  Mme.  Cottin  would  surely  not  have 
been  painted  so  black  were  the  Little  Nell  heroines 
of  Augier  and  Scribe  and  Sardou  not  quite  so 
dazzlingly  virginal. 

Jullien,  in  this  play  as  well  as  in  his  other  im- 
portant play,  "  Le  Maitre,"  was  too  conscientious, 
too  unbending  and  uncompromising,  to  meet  the 
popular  demand  in  theatrical  goods,  so  that  with 
the  close  of  the  Free  Theater  his  activity  prac- 
tically ceased. 

Georges  Ancey. —  Georges  Ancey  (born  i860 
at  Paris)  like  Jullien,  was  too  independent  to  se- 
cure and  hold  public  favor.      ^  et  his  power  of  ob- 

■*  See  "  Le  Theatre  vi\  ant  "   (Charpentier,  Paris,  1892). 
XXX 


THE  "  FREE  THEATER  " 


servation,  his  mordant  satire,  his  trenchant  and  oc- 
casionally overdrawn  pictures  of  middle-class 
family  life,  formed  one  of  the  greatest  contri- 
butions to  the  movement.  "  Les  Inseparables  " 
(1889)  and  "L'Ecole  des  Veufs  "  (1889)  are 
splendid  examples  of  Ancey's  comic  power,  while 
"  La  Dupe  "  ( i  89 1 )  presents  him  in  the  light  of  a 
commentator  on  the  darker  side  of  human  nature. 
The  play  suffers  from  exaggeration  of  character 
which  at  times  seems  all  but  puerile,  but  the  true 
tragedy  of  the  situation,  the  inherent  power  and 
irony  of  the  story,  the  numerous  striking  scenes, 
more  than  counterbalance  the  somewhat  amateur- 
ish shortcomings. 

Georges  de  Porto-Riche. — Georges  de  Porto- 
Riche  (born  at  Bordeaux,  1849)  while  he  did  not 
greatly  aid  the  new  movement,  received  help  and 
inspiration  from  it.  His  first  success,  "  La  Chance 
de  Franqoise  "  (1888)  must  surely  have  paved  the 
way  for  his  masterpiece,  "  Amoureuse  "  (1891), 
a  play  which  has  exercised  as  great  an  influence 
upon  the  contemporary  French  drama  as  any  other 
of  the  late  nineteenth  century.  Henry  Bataille 
and  Maurice  Donnay  owe  much  to  Porto-Riche. 

Antoine's  acceptance  of  "  La  Chance  de  Fran- 
Qolse  "  was  but  another  indication  of  his  breadth  of 
view.  He  did  not  insist  on  sordid  middle-class 
dramas  :  his  idea  was  to  produce  what  seemed  good 
and  original.  Porto-Riche  had  a  charming  char- 
acter study,  Antoine  liked  it,  and  produced  it. 
His  good  judgment  has  by  half  a  dozen  revivals 
at  the  best-known  theaters  of  the  capital  been 
amply  justified. 


XXXI 


ANTOINE  AND 


THE    INFLUENCE    OF   THE    FREE    THEATER 

The  influence  of  Antoine's  ideas  on  managers 
was  great  and  wide-spread.  These  were  led  to 
inquire  into  the  validity  of  the  traditions  they  had 
for  so  long  blindly  accepted,  and  cast  aside  what 
was  superfluous,  A  new  generation  of  actors 
arose  which  though  it  owed  a  good  deal  to  its  own 
intelligence  and  initiative  was  yet  decidedly  in- 
fluenced by  Antoine.  The  vigorous  acting  of 
Lucien  Guitry,  the  exquisite  and  delicate  art  of 
Madame  Simone  —  to  mention  no  others  —  seem 
but  the  natural  development  from  the  little  group 
of  amateurs  which  gathered  together  in  1887  in 
the  Rue  de  I'Elysee  des  Beaux-Arts. 

"  I  believe,"  says  Curel,  "  that  the  greatest  serv- 
ice rendered  by  the  Free  Theater  was  that  of  liber- 
ating the  modern  P  rench  stage  of  all  schools  and 
literary  coteries.  A  day  will  come  when  greater 
justice  will  be  done  our  dramatic  era,  when  the 
full  extent  of  its  originality  and  independence  will 
be  fully  realized.  rhe  originality  and  independ- 
ence of  which  I  speak  arc  due  for  the  most  part  to 
the  FVee  Theater." 

If  the  Free  Theater  has  exercised  the  greatest 
influence  over  the  modern  French  stage,  which  it 
has,  we  must  not  be  too  hasty  to  conclude  that  the 
entire  modern  movement  was  due  to  Antoine.  It 
so  happened  that  he  came  at  the  right  time,  that 
the  "  dramatic  crisis  "  would  sooner  or  later  have 
precipitated  some  sort  of  revolution.  Antoine 
helped  crystallize  the  ideas  that  were  in  the  air. 
He  was  far  from  a  perfect  manager,  nor  was  his 
judgment  unerring.     He  was  human  enough,   at 

xxxii 


THE  "  FREE  THEATER  " 


one  time,  to  desire  to  leave  the  theater  he  had 
founded,  and  become  a  salaried  actor;  at  another, 
he  nearly  ruined  his  theater  by  selecting  plays 
which  were  accommodated  to  the  actors  with  little 
reference  to  the  merit  of  the  piece.  His  produc- 
tions at  the  Odeon  (granted  even  that  he  was  work- 
ing at  a  terrible  disadvantage)  were  often  slip- 
shod, unworthy  even  of  those  "  commercial  "  thea- 
ters he  had  so  often  ridiculed  and  whose  conven- 
tional methods  he  had  spent  the  greater  part  of  his 
life  in  destroying.  If  he  has  done  valuable  work, 
he  has  done  harm;  if  he  freed  the  stage  from  one 
set  of  conventions  he  has  gone  a  long  way  to  im- 
pose another  set,  which  may  in  time  be  as  injurious 
as  those  he  destroyed.  Yet  that  is  only  what  might 
have  been  expected  of  a  man  who  was  —  permit 
the  platitude  —  no  more  than  human.  Antoine's 
work  belonged  to  a  particular  period,  and  that 
period  was  the  turning-point  in  the  history  of  the 
modern  French  theater.  While  he  was  forced  to 
fight  his  way  his  work  was  sincere  and  for  the 
most  part  beneficial.  If  to-day  other  nations  — 
like  Germany  and  Russia  —  have  gone  beyond 
him,  and  if  certain  managers  in  his  own  land  have 
taken  what  was  best  from  his  work,  he  is  not  to 
be  blamed.  For  about  ten  years  he  was  the  best 
and  most  influential  producer  in  Europe,  and  a 
revolutionary  to  whom  the  highest  tribute  should 
be  paid. 

Antoine  was  the  prophet  of  the  transition: 
Naturalism  In  fiction  was  bound  to  bring  forth 
Naturalism  in  the  theater.  Naturalism  was  a 
passing  phase:  we  have  seen  Its  rise  and  fall.  If 
Antoine  helped  Naturalism  in  the  theater  to  rise 
xxxlli 


THE  "  FREE  THEATER  " 


and  fall,  he  has  honestly  done  his  share  —  a  gen- 
erous share  —  in  the  evolution  of  an  art  which  is 
advancing,  although  we  are  as  yet  unable  to  de- 
termine toward  just  what  end. 

To  MM.  Brieux,  Curel,  and  Antoine  I  owe  my 
deepest  gratitude  for  a  great  deal  of  valuable  in- 
formation on  the  movement  in  which  they  played 
so  important  a  part.  In  numerous  conversations 
these  gentlemen  have  been  unsparing  in  time  and 
trouble,  and  afforded  me  an  insight  into  their 
work  which  I  could  not  otherwise  have  enjoyed. 

Barrett  H.  Clark. 


XXXIV 


ALPHABETICAL   LIST    OF    PLAYS    PRO- 
DUCED AT  THE  FREE  THEATER 
YEARS  1887-1896,  INCLUSIVE  ' 

A  bas  le  progres.     Edmond  de  Goncourt. 
L'Abbe  Pierre.      Marcel  Prevost, 
L'Affranchie.      Maurice  Biollay. 
Ahasuere.      Hermann  Heijermans. 
L'Amant  de  sa  femme.     Aurelien  SchoU. 
L'Amant  du  Christ.      Rodolphe  Darzens. 
Amants  eternels.     Andre  Corneau  et  H.  Ger- 

bault. 
L'Ame  Invisible.      Claude  Berton. 
L'Ancien.     Leon  Cladel. 
L' Argent.      Emile  Fabre. 
L'Assomptlon  de  Hannele  Mattern.      Gerhart 

Hauptmann. 
Au  temps  de  la  Ballade.     Georges  Bols. 
Le  Balser.     Theodore  de  BanvIUe. 
La  Belle  au  bols  rev^ant.      Fernand  Mazade. 
La  Belle  Operation.     Julien  Sermet. 
Belle  Petite.     Andre  Corneau. 
Blanchette.      Brieux. 
Boubouroche.      Georges  Courteline. 
Les  Bouchers.      I'ernand  Icres. 
Le  Canard  Sauvage.      Ibsen. 
La  Casserole.      Oscar  Metenier. 
La  Chance  de  Franqoise.      Georges  de  Porto- 

Riche. 

1  From    "  Le  Theatre   Libre"   by  Adolphe  Thalasso    (Mercure 
de  France,   1909). 

XXXV 


LIST  OF  PLAYS 


Les    Chapons.     Lucien    Descavcs    et    Georges 
Darien. 

La  Chevalerie  Rustique.     Giovanni  Verga. 

La  Cocarde.     Jules  Vidal. 

Le  Coeur  revelateur.     Ernest  Laumann. 

Coeurs  simples.     Sutter-Laumann. 

Le  Comte  Witold.     Stanislas  Rzewuski. 

Conte  de  Noel.     Auguste  Linert. 

Le  Cor  fleuri.     Mikhael  Ephraim. 

Le  Cuivre.     Paul  Adam  et  Andre  Picard. 

Dans  le  Guignol.     Jean  Aicard. 

Dans  le  Reve.     Louis  Mullem. 

Deux    Tourtereaux.     Paul    Ginist)'^    et    Jules 
Guerin. 

Le  Devoir.     Louis  Bruyerre. 

Dialogue  inconnu.     Alfred  de  VIgny. 

La  Dupe.      Georges  Ancey. 

L'Echeance.     Jean  Jullien. 

L'Ecole  des  Veufs.     Georges  Ancey. 

Elen.     Villiers  de  I'lsle  Adam. 

En  Detresse.     Henry  Fevre. 

En  Famille.     Oscar  Metenler. 

En  I'attendant.      Leon  Roux 

L'Envers  d'une  Sainte.      Francois  de  Curel. 

Esther  Brandcs.     Leon  Hennique, 

L'Etoile  Rouge.     Henry  Fevre. 

L'Evasion.     Villiers  de  I'lsle  Adam. 

La  Femme  de  Tabarin.      Catulle  Mendes. 

Les    Fenetres.     Jules    Perrin    et    Claude    Cou- 
turier. 

La  Fille  d'Artaban.     Alfred  Mortier. 

La  Fille  Elisa.     Jean  Ajalbert. 

La  Fin  de  Lucie  Pellegrin.      Paul  Alexis. 

La  Fin  du  vieux  temps.      Paul  Anthelm. 
xxxvi 


LIST  OF  PLAYS 


Les  Fosslles,      Frangois  de  Curel. 

Les  Fourches  caudines.      Maurice  Le  Corbelller. 

Les  Freres  Zemganno.     Paul  Alexis  et  Oscar 

Metenler. 
La  Fumee  puis  la  flamme.     Joseph  Caragull. 
Grand-papa.     Claude  Berton. 
La  Grappin,     Gaston  Salandri. 
L'Honneur.      Henry  Fevre. 
Inceste    d'ames.     Jean    Laurenty    et    Fernand 

Hauser. 
L'Inquietude.     Jules    Perrin    et    Claude    Cour- 

turier. 
Les  Inseparables.     Georges  Ancey. 
Jacques  Bouchard.     Pierre  Wolff. 
Jacques  Damour.      Leon  Hennique. 
Jeune  Premier.      Paul  Ginisty. 
Leurs  lilies.     Pierre  Wolff. 
Lidoire.     Georges  Courteline. 
Madeleine.     Emile  Zola. 
Mademoiselle  Fifi.     Oscar  Metenier. 
Mademoiselle  Julie.     August  Strindberg. 
Mademoiselle   Pomme.     Paul  Alexis   et   Dur- 

anty. 
Le  Maitre.     Jean  Jullien. 
Mariage  d'argent.     Eugene  Bourgeois. 
Les  Maris  de  leurs  lilies.      Pierre  Wolff. 
Matapan.     Emile  Moreau. 
Melie.     Georges  Docquois. 
Le  Menage  Bresile.      Romain  Coolus. 
Menages  d'artistes.      Brieux. 
La  Meule.     Georges  Lecomte. 
Mirages.     Georges  Lecomte. 
Le  Missionairc.      Marcel  Luguet. 
Monsieur  Bute.      Maurice  BioUay. 
xxxvii 


LIST  OF  PLAYS 


Monsieur  Lamblin.     Georges  Ancey. 

La  Mort  du  Due  d'Enghien.     Leon  Hennique. 

Myrane.     Emile  Bergerat. 

La  Nebuleuse.     Louis  Dumur. 

Nell  Horn.     J.  H.  et  J.  Rosny. 

La   Nuit  Bergamesque.     Emile  Bergerat. 

Le  Pain  d'autrui.     Armand  Ephraim  et  Willy 

Schultz. 
Le  Pain  du  Peche.     Paul  Arene. 
La   Patrie   en   danger.     Edmond   et  Jules   de 

Goncourt. 
La  Peche.     Henry  Ceard. 
Peche    d'amour.     Michel    Carre    et    Georges 

Loiseau. 
La    Pelote.      Paul    Bonnetain    et    Lucien    Des- 

caves. 
Le  Pendu.     Eugene  Bourgeois. 
Le  Pere  Goriot.     M.  Tabarant. 
Le  Pere  Lebonnard.     Jean  Aicard. 
Pierrot   assassin   de   sa    femme.      Paul      Mar- 

gueritte. 
Le  Poete  et  le  Financier.     Maurice  Vaucaire. 
La  Prose.     Gaston  Salandri. 
La  Puissance  des  Tenebres.     Tolstoi. 
Les     Quarts-d'heure.      Gustave      Guiches      et 

Henry  Lavedan. 
La  Rancon.     Gaston  Salandri. 
La  Reine  Fiammette.     Catulle  Mendes. 
Les  Resignes.     Henry  Ceard. 
Les  Revenants.     Ibsen. 
Rolande,     Louis  de  Gramont. 
La  Serenade.     Jean  Jullien. 
Seul.     Albert  Guinon. 
Si  c'etait  .   .   .      Paul  Lheureux, 
xxxviii 


LIST  OF  PLAYS 


Simone.     Louis  de  Gramont. 

Soeur  Philomene.     Arthur  Byl  et  Jules  Vldal. 

Soldat  et  mineur.     Jean  Malafayde. 

Son  petit  coeur.     Louis  MarsoUau. 

La    Tante    Leontine.     Maurice    Boniface     et 

Edouard  Bodin. 
Les  Tisserands.     Gerhart  Hauptmann. 
Tout  pour  I'honneur.     Henry  Ceard. 
Un  beau  soir.     Maurice  Vaucaire. 
Une  Faillite.     Bjornstjerne  Bjornson. 
Une  Journee  parlementaire.      Maurice  Barres. 
Une  nouvelle  ecole.     Louis  Mullem. 
Un  prefet.     Arthur  Byl. 
Valet  de  Coeur,     Maurice  Vaucaire. 


xxxix 


REFERENCES 

Among  the  great  mass  of  contemporary  criti- 
cism, collected  from  periodicals,  may  be  men- 
tioned: Sarcey,  Quarante  ans  de  Theatre;  Jules 
Lemaitre,  Impressions  de  Theatre;  Emile  Kaguet, 
Propos  de  Theatre;  and  Edmond  Stoullig,  Les 
Annates  du  Theatre  et  de  la  Musiqne. 

Books  and  essays  on  the  Free  Theater:  Adolphe 
Thalasso,  "  Le  Theatre  Libre"  (Mercure  de 
France)  ;  Augustin  Filon,  "  De  Dumas  a  Ros- 
tand"  (Colin);  Jean  Jullien,  "  Le  Theatre 
Vivant  "  (Charpentier)  ;  "  Le  Theatre  Libre" 
(privately  printed  brochure,  Mai  1890). 

Individual  biographies  of  Brieux,  Curel,  Porto- 
Riche,  Courteline,  Lucien  Descaves,  and  Jean 
Aicard,  in  the  Celebrites  d'/liijourd'hiii  series 
(Sansot) . 

Further  bibliographical  and  biographical  ma- 
terial in:  George  Moore,  "Impressions  and 
Opinions"  (Brentano)  ;  Barrett  H.  Clark,  The 
Continental  Drama  of  To-day  (Holt).  Maga- 
zines:     The  Drama,  Nos.  2  and  11. 


xl 


The  Fossils 

{Les   Fossiles) 

A  Play  in  Four  Acts 

By 
FRANCOIS  DE  CUREL 

AUTHORIZED    TRANSLATION    BY 

BARRETT   H.    CLARK 


Produced  for  the  first  time  in  its  original  form, 
at  Paris  in  tlie  Theatre  Libre,  November  2g, 
1892;  revived,  in  its  present  form,  by  the  company 
of  the  Theatre  Frangais,  in  the  Odeon  Theater, 
May    21,    1900. 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED: 

The  Duke  of  Chantemelle 

Robert  de  Chantemelle 

Nicolas 

A  Farmer 

A  Country  Neighbor 

A  Servant 

The  Duchess  de  Chantemelle 

Claire  de  Chantemelle 

Helene  Vatrin 

A  Nun 


CASTS 


The  Duke  de  Chante- 
melle   

Robert     de     Chante- 
melle      

i8g2 
MM.  Antoine 

Camis 

Nicolas   

ArquilHere 
Pens-Aries 

A  Farmer   

A      Country     Neigh- 
bor    

Gemier 

A  Servant 

Verse 

The  Duchess  de  Chan- 
temelle   

Mmes     Rpsnlf 

Claire     de     Chante- 
melle   

Berthe  Bady 
Jeanne  Dulac 
Mereane 

Helene  Vatrin 

A  Nun    

3 

FOUR  PLAYS 


The  Duke  de  Chante- 

MELLE    

Robert     de     Chante- 

MELLE    

Nicolas   

A  Farmer   

A  Country  Neighbor. 

A  Servant  

The  Duchess  de  Ciian- 

temelle  

Claire     de     Chante- 

MELLE    

Helene  Vatrin 

A  Nun 


igoo 

MM.  Paul  Mounet 

Le  Bargy 

Laugler 

Ravet 

Joliet 

Laty 

Mmes.   Pierson 

Bartet 

Wanda  de  Bencza 

Delvair 


THE  FOSSILS 
ACT  I 

[A  large  country  house  in  the  Ardennes. — 
A  spacious  zvainscotted  room;  to  the  right, 
windows  partially  concealed  by  thick  curtains; 
to  the  left,  a  high  fireplace  between  two  doors. 
At  the  back,  a  large  doorway  opening  into  a 
vestibule.  The  paneling  around  this  door,  as 
well  as  the  walls  of  the,  room,  is  covered  with 
panoplies,  hunting  trophies,  old  armor,  gene- 
alogical charts,  and  maps  of  ancient  domains. 
The  furnishings  are  severe ;  the  room  breathes 
an  air  of  feudalism. 

It  is  evening;  a  single  lamp  gives  out  a 
sickly  light  into  the  room.  From  time  to  time 
the  fire,  zvhich  is  concealed  for  the  most  part  in 
ashes,  shoots  forth  little  flames.  Outside,  a 
storm  is  beginning;  the  whistling  of  the  wind  is 
heard. 

Enter  Claire.  She  looks  quickly  about  her, 
goes  to  the  window  and  raises  the  curtain  to 
look  into  the  night,  but  the  inside  shutters  are 
closed.  She  makes  a  little  gesture  of  impa- 
tience, then  goes  at  once  to  the  door  at  the  back, 
and  is  about  to  leave  the  room  when  a  servant 
enters  carrying  an  armful  of  wood.  She  i)iter- 
cepts  him  and  asks^ 

Claire.     There    is    a    carriage    outside    from 
town;  whose  is  it? 

5 


FOUR  PLAYS 


Servant.     The  doctor's,  Mademoiselle. 
Claire.     The  doctor  from  Paris? 
Servant.     The  doctor  from  Paris  and  the  one 
from  town  also. 

Claire.  But  the  consultation  was  not  to  take 
place  until  to-morrow? 

Servant.  I  heard  the  gentlemen  telling  Ma- 
dame la  duchesse  that  the  doctor  froin  Paris  has 
to  make  a  speech  to-morrow  before  the  yVcademy 
of  Science.  So  he  telegraphed  and  said  he  would 
come  to-day.  The  telegram  didn't  arrive  because 
of  the  frost  that  broke  all  the  wires  this  side  of 
Sedan. 

Claire.  Do  you  know  whether  the  doctors  are 
to  take  dinner  here? 

Servant.  Oh,  no,  Mademoiselle;  they  didn't 
even  unhitch  their  horses.  When  I  was  coming 
up-stairs  just  now,  I  overheard  them  talking  with 
Madame  la  duchesse;  they're  probably  gone  by 
this  time. 

Claire.     Has  my  father  come  in  yet? 
Servant.     I  haven't  seen  any  one. 
Claire.     Very  well! 

[She  sits  beside  a  table,  dozvn-stage,  and  leans 
upon  it,  meditatiiig.  The  servant  puts  the 
wood  by  the  fireplace,  lays  a  log  on  the  fire, 
and  goes  out.  After  a  mowetit,  Claire  rises, 
opens  the  door  at  the  bark,  listens,  then 
comes  back  to  the  fireplace,  standing  before 
it,  her  head  resting  upon  the  stone  man- 
tel. 
Enter  the  Duchess  at  the  back.  Her  ex- 
pression is  one  of  great  sadness;  her  eyes 
are  red  from  cryi)ig.  Claire  turns  round, 
6 


THE  FOSSILS 


and  the  Duchess  throws  herself  precipitately 
into  her  arms.~\ 

Duchess.     Your  poor  brother! 

Claire.     Worse?! 

Duchess.  Yes !  We  have  to  send  him 
south.  He  will  never  come  back  to  us  —  I 
know  it ! 

Claire.     Is  it  that  bad? 

Duchess.  The  doctors  gave  him  all  sorts  of 
encouragement.  I  don't  know  whether  he  be- 
lived  them,  but  I  knew  well  enough  they  weren't 
telling  the  truth !  I  saw  them  to  their  carriage, 
and  the  moment  they  were  saying  Good-by  —  I 
was  on  the  steps,  with  snow  on  my  feet,  and  I 
was  quite  sure  Robert  was  out  of  hearing, —  I 
asked  them  for  the  truth. 

Claire.     But  if  they're  sending  him  south — ? 

Duchess.  He  will  never  recover!  Per- 
haps the  climate  at  Nice  will  prolong  his  life  for 
a  few  months  —  perhaps  !  [Holding  back  her 
tears.~\  Here,  they  told  me,  it  was  only  a  ques- 
tion of  days  — 

\_She  falls  into  a  chair,  her  face  buried  in  a 
handkerchief.  Claire,  standing  as  before 
at  the  fireplace,  is  crying  also,  but  she  con- 
trols her  feelings.] 

Claire.     They  must  be  exaggerating! 

Duchess.  Our  only  hope  is  in  God!  — 
\_/Ifter  a  pause.]      What  a  blow  for  your  father! 

Claire  [dryly].  Yes,  it  is!  But  he  will  be 
able  to  survive:  hasn't  he  his  hunting,  his  dogs, 
his  horses,  and  all  that? 

Duchess  [icith  severity].  Claire,  you  never 
miss    an    opportunity    of    saying    something    dis- 

7 


FOUR  PLAYS 


agreeable  about  your  father;  why?  You  didn't 
use  to  do  that;  I  remember  when  you  adored 
him.  Why  have  you  changed  so  suddenly? 
What—? 

Claire  [ejubarrassedli.  I  haven't  changed  — 
perhaps  I'm  not  so  sympathetic  and  open  as 
when  I  was  a  young  girl  —  that's  all.  You  may 
be  sure  I  feel  keenly  for  him. 

Duchess.  It  will  be  terrible.  His  dogs  and 
horses  will  be  of  little  use  to  him  now.  He 
loves  Robert,  and  then  —  he  might  perhaps  have 
had  some  consolation — !  If  Robert  had  only 
had  a  brother,  if  he  weren't  the  only  son;  if  our 
name,  the  title  of  Duke,  weren't  about  to  die  out 
—  do  you  understand? 

Claire.  Do  I  understand?  [Tense  ivith  ex- 
citement.] The  Dukes  of  Chantemelle!  Their 
names  are  on  every  page  of  the  history  of  France! 
It's  terrible  to  have  Robert  so  near  the  end, — 
to  think  that  after  his  death  all  our  glory,  our 
almost  royal  greatness,  will  be  only  a  dream  of 
the  past!  If  I  am  only  a  woman,  I  am  proud 
of  the  name  of  Chantemelle !  As  proud  as 
Father!  Oh,  what  he  will  suffer  when  he  comes 
in  and  hears  the  news!  —  Listen,  Mother,  I  al- 
ways intended  never  to  get  married,  so  that  my 
share  of  the  family  fortune  would  go  to  Rob- 
ert: a  Duke  de  Chantemelle  must  li^■e  up  to  his 
name !  — 

Duchess.  You  are  a  true  daughter  of  your 
father  —  and  Robert  is  like  you,  too:  you  live 
in  the  past,  it  claims  you,  but  you  never  realize 
how  much  the  present  forgets  you  —  Times  have 
changed !  —  Let  the  Duke  de  Chantemelle  cease 

8 


THE  FOSSILS 


to  exist,  and  the  world  will  feel  no  loss.      [^Sob- 
bifig.]      Only  I,  with  my  mother's  heart  — ! 

[Robert  enters,  overhearing  the  last  few 
words,  a  witness  of  the  distress  of  his 
mother  and  sister.  He  is  a  man  of  distin- 
guished bearing,  with  a  pale  face,  feverish 
eyes,  hollow  cheeks,  and  fiat  chest.  He 
gives  the  impression  of  one  who  is  fighting 
bravely  against  disease  and  death.~\ 

Robert.  Courage,  Mother!  [Smiling  sad- 
ly.^     I'm  still  alive! 

Duchess  [rising  in  alarm].  My  child!  You 
are  not  in  the  slightest  danger!  That  Is,  the 
doctors  said  nothing  definite !  You  know  what 
they  told  you :  a  winter  in  Nice  will  give  you  new 
life! 

Robert.  That's  what  you  said.  Mother:  they 
said  that  a  winter  in  Nice  would  do  me  a  great 
deal  of  good,  that  was  all!  It's  something,  of 
course!  [Ironically.]  Well,  let  us  believe 
them  — 

Duchess.  Of  course,  we  must  believe  them ! 
They  impressed  it  on  me  again  just  as  they  were 
leaving. 

Robert  [impatiently].  Oh,  very  well!  Has 
Father  come  in  yet? 

Claire.  No.  The  snow  is  so  deep !  It's  so 
cold ! 

Robert  [with  a  sigh].  I  can  imagine  what's 
happened !  They  must  have  shot  a  number  of 
boars;  in  this  weather,  it  would  be  easy.  Prob- 
ably they  wounded  a  big  one,  and  chased  him 
along  his  bloody  trail  until  dark,  for  leagues 
and   leagues !      I    can    see   them    now,    tired   out, 

9 


FOUR  PLAYS 


dragging  one  foot  after  the  other  —  and  the 
wounded  dogs,  and  the  hunters  with  Icicles  In 
their  beards.  \^Suj}iiug  agai}i.~\  And  just  one 
year  ago  I  was  doing  all  that! 

Claire  [k,///;  a  forced  snillc'~\.  Do  you  re- 
gret it,  slipping  over  the  icy  places,  with  a  dog 
howling  at  your  heels? 

RoBKRT.  Yes,  I  regret  the  times  when  we  gal- 
loped over  the  wide  Helds,  Claire,  you  and  I, 
and  jumped  the  ditches  and  hedges  —  Now  here 
I  am,  a  horseman  good  for  nothing,  who  sees  his 
companion  dashing  away  at  full  gallop  over  and 
beyond  the  horizon  —  while  I  — 

Claire  [hoMiiig  hack  the  teat  si.  His  com- 
panion—  doesn't  ride  like  that,  any  more, — 
without  him!  [Overcome  by  Iter  tears,  quickly. ^ 
If  they  didn't  have  good  luck  to-day  Feather's 
coming  home  In  an  awful  humor.  I'll  have  a 
good  fire  built  In  his  bed-room.  [She  goes  out 
immediately. 1 

Robert  [going  to  l/ie  Duchess,  ziho  is  trying 
to  assume  an  untroubled  e.xpression.  He  takes 
her  hands,  forces  her  to  look  into  his  face  and, 
after  a  short  silence^.  Now  that  we're  alone, 
Mother,  no  more  ceremonies!  I  haven't  any  il- 
lusions left  about  my  condition;  and  you,  you 
don't  hope  — ! 

Duchess.     But  I  tell  you  — 

Robert.  Treat  me  like  a  man:  I  should  be 
the  first  Chantemelle  to  shrink  before  death!  — 
I  once  hoped  for  a  different  end,  but  this  is  only 
a  better  occasion  to  show  courage,  moral  courage: 
not  the  kind  that  wins  battles! 

DucTiESS    [///    an    undertone^.      You    talk    so 

ID 


THE  FOSSILS 


cold-bloodedly !  Your  giving  in  to  a  Power 
against  which  no  resistance  is  permitted  is  fear- 
ful !  There  are  some  times  when  that  Power 
which  we  ought  to  bless  even  when  it  strikes  us  — 
[Breakififf  out  into  sobs.^  Oh,  I  can't  bear  it! 
I  can't  bear  it! 

Robert.  My  giving  in  is  not  so  hard  as  you 
think:  I  had  foreseen  the  blow,  I've  been  prepar- 
ing for  it  during  the  past  few  weeks.  My  mind 
is  quite  at  ease  — 

Duchess  [zcith  an  outburst  of  feeling].  Then 
if  you  had  to  —  leave  us,  you  would  regret  noth- 
ing? Your  father?  Your  mother?  Your  sis- 
ter?    No  one,  nothing?      [She  sobs.1 

Robert.  I  shall  have  terrible  regrets!  I  can 
hardly  speak  of  them,  when  I  think  how  much 
energy  I  need.  It  would  be  a  great  deal  easier 
to  brave  out  the  whole  thing! 

[He  throws  himself  into  a  cliair,  exhausted,  and 
hides  his  face  in  his  hands.] 

Duchess.     Poor  child! 

Robert  [raises  his  head  and  speaks  to  him- 
self~\.  If  I'm  sick,  I've  got  to  come  to  that!  — 
Mother,  I  have  a  very  serious  matter  to  talk  to 
you  about  —  the  happiness  of  my  last  days  de- 
pends on  it.  I  want  you  to  promise  me  some- 
thing. 

Duchess  [rising].     What  is  it?- 

Robert.     It's  about  Mademoiselle  Vatrin  — 

Duchess  [dryly].  I  can't  imagine  what  you 
have  to  say  about  her.  If  it  were  about  any  one 
else  —  She  is  a  young  woman  without  a  sou, 
whom  I  took  care  of  because  her  mother  was  at 
boarding-school  with  me.     The  girl  owes  every- 

1 1 


FOUR  PLAYS 


thing  she  has  to  mc,  and  I  have  even  promised 
her  a  small  dowry!  Until  she  finds  a  husband, 
I  am  allowing  her  to  associate  with  your  sister: 
Claire  broods  so  much  during  the  year  I  thought 
it  wise  to  let  her  have  a  friend  of  her  own  age. 
See  how  grateful  she  is! 

Robert  [seated,  his  head  bent  over  his  knees, 
his  eyes  fixed  on  the  floor].  Mademoiselle 
Vatrin  is  incapable  of  ingratitude.  You  must 
have  had  some  good  reason  tor  getting  her  out  of 
the  way  that  summer !  I  doubt  whether  she  has 
forgotten  your  kindness. 

Duchess.  You  doubt?  —  I  should  think  I 
did  have  good  reasons  for  doing  what  I  did! 
Mademoiselle  Vatrin  was  much  too  familiar  with 
you  men,  much  too  familiar  for  a  young  woman 
of  twenty-five !  I  let  her  know  she  was  over- 
stepping the  limits!     Then  she  left. 

Robert.  She  told  me  about  it,  and  also  that 
you  offered  her  a  pension,  which  she  refused. 

Duchess.  Did  she  tell  you  that?  You?!  By 
what  right?     Why — ? 

Robert  [n^/;/^].  Yes,  she  was  my  mistress. 
We  loved  one  another  deeply.  What  you  called 
her  familiarity  was  merely  what  we  failed  to 
have  the  presence  of  mind  to  hide.  That  was 
why  you  didn't  understand. 

Duchess  [deeply  and  strangely  troubled,  as 
she  takes  his  hands  in  hers].  Robert,  you  can- 
not imagine,  you  will  never  know  what  I  feel  now, 
when  you  tell  me  this ! 

Robert.  You  suppose,  do  you,  that  I  am  go- 
ing   to    beg    you    to    let    me    marry    her?     No. 

12 


THE  FOSSILS 


Helene   knows   what   tremendous   opposition   she 
would  meet  with  from  the  family. 

Duchess.  Marry  her?  I  never  thought  of 
It.  Why  — !  I  was  so  sad  this  evening,  and 
now  I  am  so  different.  We  should  never  lose 
hope  — 

Robert.  Your  love  for  me,  Mother,  is  won- 
derful !  My  love  for  that  girl  fills  you  with  hap- 
piness. Don't  deny  it,  I  see  it  in  your  face!  It 
is  as  if  you  considered  that  my  love  for  her 
formed  a  strong  bond  between  me  and  —  life ! 
Well,  if  you're  not  too  angry,  I'm  happy! 

Duchess  [beaming].  I  am  angry,  and  I 
blame  you  very  much.  How  can  I  keep  from 
blaming  you  for  your  irregular  conduct  —  think 
of  it,  she  was  one  of  Claire's  own  friends! 
Your  sister  might  have  suspected!  It  was  an  in- 
sult to  her !  I  don't  want  to  scold  you  any  more, 
Robert,  your  life  is  so  sad!  I'm  only  too  glad  to 
see  you  smile  sometimes ! 

Robert  [smiling].  I  know  very  well  you  are 
not  quite  unforgiving.  If  you  will  be  absolutely 
frank  for  a  single  second,  I'll  show  you  that  you 
are  very  well  satisfied  with  me. 

Duchess.  Satisfied  that  you  seduced  a  young 
woman  under  my  very  roof,  a  woman  who  was 
under  my  protection !  A  friend  of  your  own 
sister  Claire?! 

Robert.  You  can  find  many  excellent  reasons 
to  prove  that  I  have  done  wrong,  but  there  is  an- 
other matter  —  which  is  anything  but  unfortu- 
nate —  something  that  you  are  always  thinking 
about. 

13 


FOUR  PLAYS 


Duchess  [smiling].     All  the  time? 

Robert.  Well,  yes!  There,  you're  beam- 
ing!    Tell  me  now,  why  are  you  so  glad? 

Duchess.     Why — ? 

Robert.     Yes,  why? 

Duchess  [deciding  to  make  some  sort  of  an- 
swer]. It  might  do  some  good — [After  a 
pause.]  Have  you  ever  noticed?  I  was  very 
unhappy  —  at  one  time,  I  thought  there  was 
something  between  your  father  and  Mademoiselle 
Vatrin  —  I  was  so  jealous  and  humiliated — ! 

Robert.  Mother!  It  was  I  all  the  time! 
Oh,  I  was  so  happy!  My  happiness  overflowed! 
When  a  river  overflows  its  banks,  who  can  see 
its  usual  course?  —  You  were  very  tender  just 
now  —  and  you  had  no  idea  why ! 

Duchess.  But  I  wasn't  alone  in  my  suspi- 
cions: I  am  almost  positive  that  Claire  was 
haunted  with  the  same  thought.  Claire  is  so 
pure  and  upright:  she  would  never  suspect  with- 
out good  reason !  7  here  were  at  least  some  ap- 
pearances— !  One  day,  Claire  came  to  me,  it 
was  six  months  ago  —  when  my  suspicions  were 
strongest  —  I  was  terribly  tormented,  I  spied  on 
your  father,  even. —  She  told  me  she  was  tired 
of  Helene's  company,  that  they  didn't  get  along 
well  together,  that  she  would  be  glad  to  get  rid 
of  her.  Of  course  she  didn't  tell  me  her  sus- 
picions in  so  many  words:  a  young  girl  like  that! 
Then  I  couldn't  question  her,  you  understand! 
Well,  I  was  at  my  wits'  end.  I  might  have  risked 
my  own  peace  of  mind,  but  to  expose  my  daugh- 
ter to  that  —  the  day  after.  Mademoiselle  Vatrin 
left. 

14 


THE  FOSSILS 


Robert.  We  weren't  careful  enough.  Claire 
is  very  sensitive  and  proud,  and  I  shouldn't  like 
her  to  have  found  out  about  us  —  You  see,  'uce 
are  the  ones ! 

Duchess.  Yes,  thank  Heaven!  But  Claire 
changed  toward  her  father  just  as  I  did,  from 
that  time  on.  Haven't  you  noticed  how  formal 
and  distant  she  is  toward  him !  She  never  says 
nice  things  to  him,  nor  gives  him  little  surprises 
as  she  used  to !  She  is  even  rather  impudent  at 
times ! 

Robert.  Yes,  I've  noticed.  Perhaps  we  can 
insinuate  that  she  was  on  the  wrong  scent. 

Duchess.  We  must  try,  yes!  I  love  your 
father  deeply,  and  my  first  duty  is  to  make  you 
respect  him.  We  must  forget  what  I've  said 
here  —  it  was  an  insult  to  him  — .  I  shall  re- 
member only  one  thing:  my  almost  scandalous  joy 
in  finding  out  my  mistake. 

Robert  \^serlous^y^^.  Mother,  it  is  to  our  in- 
terest to  forget  these  things  —  [/Jfter  a  pause,  in 
a  lozv  tone.]  I  still  want  to  ask  you  for  that 
promise.  It  is  this:  I  want  to  see  Helene  once 
more  before  I  die.  Let  her  come  here.  I  ad- 
mit, I'm  asking  a  great  deal,  but  — 

Duchess.  It  is  a  great  deal!  Do  you 
mean — ?  Mademoiselle  Vatrin,  your — Ma- 
demoiselle Vatrin  under  our  roof?  What  if 
Claire  should  meet  her  and  they  should  talk  — ! 
Claire,  your  own  sister  !     Just  think  ! 

Robert.  Do  you  imagine  that  I  should  ask 
you  without  considering  the  whole  matter?  I 
confess  it's  a  mad  idea,  but  I  must  see  her.  If 
you  refuse,  I'll  go  to  her. 

15 


FOUR  PLAYS 


Duchess.  You!  To  her!?  In  your  state, 
all  alone  !      It  would  be  your  death  ! 

Robert  [cxciU'dly'].  A  few  weeks  more  or 
less  will  make  very  little  difference !  I  beg  you, 
let  her  come !  Not  only  must  I  see  her,  but  you 
must  welcome  her  yourself! 

Duchess  [zcith  determination'].  No!  You 
mustn't  think  of  it ! 

Robert.     She  is  the  mother  of  my  son  — 

T)\JcnE%s>\^thiinderstriick'].  A  son !  My  God, 
Robert,  what  are  you  telling  me?!     A  son! 

Robert  [ratJier  ivarmly].  Having  no  per- 
sonal fortune,  I  can't  leave  them  anything. 
Helene's  life  and  the  child's  are  therefore  at  your 
mercy.  I  confide  them  to  your  care  —  my  son ! 
Think,  Mother,  where  yours  will  be  before  long! 
Treat  mine  a  little  as  you  would  your  own !  — 

[He  stops,  gasping  for  breath,  his  hand  on 
his  chest.~\ 

Duchess  [holding  back  the  tears].  Rest, 
Robert!  We'll  send  your  sister  away  for  a  day 
or  two  :  your  father  will  take  her !  Mademoiselle 
Vatrin  may  come  then,  I  shall  treat  her  well. 
The  child  —  Oh,  If  I  had  suspected  that  when  I 
was  so  tormented  about  your  father  I  couldn't 
have  stood  it  all !     When  was  he  born  ? 

Robert.     Two  months  ago  —  at  Paris. 

Duchess  [hesitating].  What  — ?  Under 
what  name?  I  don't  know  what  they  do  in  such 
a  case?     I  mean,  how  did  they  name  the  child? 

Robert  [surprised].  Why,  Vatrin,  of  course, 
like  his  mother. —  Now,  my  duty  is  to  make  pro- 
vision for  their  future.      I  beg  you  on  my  knees 

i6 


THE  FOSSILS 


to   do  this  —  But  to  call  him  anything  but  Va- 
trin  — ! 

Duchess  \_as  if  relieved  of  a  great  weight^. 
Oh,  Robert,  I  can  breathe  again! 

[Enter  the  Duke,  in  hunting  costume,  followed 
by  a  servant  who  lights  a  paper  torch  from 
the  fire,  goes  out  and  returns  a  moment  later 
with   two   lighted  lamps;  he  goes   out  once 
more  to  get  the  Duke's  slippers.      The  stage 
is  brightly  illuminated.^ 
Duke.     Good  evening! 
Duchess.     You  are  late,  Henri! 
\^She  kisses  him  with  great  tenderness,  at  which 

he  is  surprised.^ 
Robert  [inquisitivelyl.  What  did  you  kill? 
Duke.  Don't  say  anything  about  that!  We 
had  fearful  luck !  When  we  got  to  the  wood  this 
morning,  we  were  on  the  trails  of  nearly  thirty 
boars.  We  were  going  to  have  the  devil  of  a  fine 
chase ! 

Robert  [impatiently].  Did  you  kill  any- 
thing? 

Duke.  A  little  sow  —  weighed  only  a  hun- 
dred and  twenty !  I  put  a  bullet  through  her, 
and  the  dogs  finished  up  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
later. 

[Enter  the  servant,  with  the  Duke's  slippers. 

—  The  fire  burns  brightly.] 
Duchess.     Here     are     your     slippers;     you 
ought  to  change  before  the  snow  melts  through 
your  overshoes;  look  how  it's  running!      You're 
in  a  regular  puddle ! 

Duke  [sitting  by  the  fireplace].     Lord,  what 
17 


FOUR  PLAYS 


a  splendid  fire!  That  puts  life  into  you!  [He 
stretches  forth  his  feet,  and  the  servant  puts  on 
the  slipper s.~\ 

Robert.     Is  it  snowing? 

Duke.  Hard:  the  branches  of  the  trees  are 
beginning  to  break  with  the  weight.  We  were 
hard  put  to  find  our  way  this  evening. 

Servant  \^rises,  takes  the  hoots  and  leggings, 
and  is  about  to  leave'\.  Nicolas  the  forester 
wishes  to  know  whether  he  may  see  Monsieur? 

Duke  \^quickly^.  Yes,  yes,  in  the  antecham- 
ber; I'll  see  him  — 

Duchess.  Receive  him  here,  why  not? 
There's  no  reason  why  you  should  go  running 
after  your  foresters,  tired  as  you  are ! 

Duke.  I'm  not  tired!  Very  well,  then! 
[To  the  servant,  annoyed.]  Let  him  come  in 
here —      [The  servant  goes  out.] 

Robert.  Wasn't  Nicolas  with  you  to- 
day? 

Duke   [embarrassed].     No,  he  was  not. 

Robert.  You'll  see:  he's  had  plenty  of  boars 
in  his  section  of  the  forest  all  day,  and  he'll  want 
orders  for  to-morrow. 

Duke.  To-morrow  is  your  consultation,  you 
know.      I  shan't  go  out. 

Duchess.  We  have  already  had  the  consul- 
tation: this  evening. 

Duke.     What,  without  letting  us  know — ? 

Duchess.  Doctor  Jaubert  telegraphed  that 
he  would  have  to  come  one  day  earlier  on  ac- 
count of  an  official  ceremony  at  which  he  has  to 
speak  to-morrow.  Because  of  the  storms  this  side 
of  Sedan,  the  telegram  was  delayed.     The  doc- 

i8 


THE  FOSSILS 


tors  came  quite  unexpectedly,  you  see.  We  were 
all  so  surprised! 

Duke.  Well,  what  did  they  have  to  say? 
How  was  he  ? 

Duchess  [with  a  gesture  of  despair].  Not 
very  well ! 

Duke.     Ah — ! 

Robert.  Not  at  all  well,  Faiher:  you  and  I 
won't  kill  many  more  boars  together. 

Duke  [sadlyl.     What  did  they  advise? 

Duchess.     Go  south  as  soon  as  possible. 

Duke.     South,  where?     Pau?     Nice?  — 

Duchess.     Nice. 

l^Enter  Nicolas.  He  stands  in  the  doorway 
at  the  hack,  hat  in  hand.] 

Nicolas.     It's  me,  Monsieur  le  due  — 

Robert.     Good  evening,  Nicolas,  any  boars? 

Nicolas  [coming  dozen  stage  a  little].  No, 
Monsieur  Robert,  I've  come  here  on  business. 

Robert.  Great  hunting  weather,  isn't  it, 
Nicolas? 

Nicolas  [shaking  his  head  in  affirmation]. 
Fine,  Monsieur  Robert.  Snow's  falling  in  sheets! 
If  this  keeps  up,  we  can't  take  a  dog  out,  or  even 
a  beater! 

Robert.  Seems  there's  a  good  many  boars 
about  this  year,  eh? 

Nicolas.  Oh,  quite  a  few;  nothing  to  com- 
plain of.  We  had  five  wolves  yesterday  at  Bois 
Brule. 

Robert.  They  were  howling  all  night  at  the 
end  of  the  pond.  I  heard  them  from  my  bed. 
[His  eyes  glistening.]  Five  of  them!  [JTith  a 
sigh.]     Well,  that's  all  over  for  me,  Nicolas  — 

19 


FOUR  PLAYS 


Nicolas.  Ah,  Monsieur  Robert,  your  health 
isn't — ? 

Robert  [with  a  bitter  laugh'].  Ha!  Hal 
My  health  was  never  better ! 

Duchess  [putting  her  arm  around  his  neck]. 
Come,  son,  it's  nearly  time  for  dinner;  let's  not 
keep  your  father.  He  must  have  a  terrific  appe- 
tite.    Good  evening,  Nicolas. 

Nicolas.  Good  evening,  Madame  la  du- 
chesse.  Hope  you're  better  soon,  Monsieur  Rob- 
ert! 

[Robert  thanks  him  zvilli  a  nod,  and  goes  out 
with  his  mother.] 

Duke  [standing  zvith  his  back  to  the  fire]. 
Have  you  just  come  from  town? 

Nicolas.     This  instant,  Monsieur  le  due. 

Duke.  Have  you  seen  Mademoiselle  Va- 
trin  ? 

Nicolas.  Yes,  Monsieur  le  due:  I'm  afraid 
Monsieur  won't  like  it! 

Duke.  Come,  out  with  it!  Did  she  read  my 
letter? 

Nicolas.     Yes,  of  course,  but  — 

Duke.     Well?     What  then? 

Nicolas.  This:  I  went  as  Monsieur  told  me, 
to  the  Hotel  du  Cheval-Blanc  — 

Duke.     With  your  wife? 

Nicolas.  Naturally,  because  Monsieur  ex- 
plained that  we  were  to  take  the  child  from 
Mademoiselle  Vatrin  and  keep  it  with  us. — 
Well,  my  wife  was  mighty  cold  traveling  all  day 
in  this  weather  —  you  see,  it  was  only  three  weeks 
since  she  had  a  baby,  and  she's  still  a  little  weak 
—  Well,  I  says  to  her,  "  What's  the  matter  with 

20 


THE  FOSSILS 


you?  It's  for  Monsieur  le  due,  and  his  son;  ean't 
spare  any  pains!  " — 

Duke.  Yes,  and  was  Mademoiselle  Vatrin 
waiting  for  you  ? 

Nicolas.  That's  it.  She  just  got  off  the  train 
from  Paris  not  a  quarter  of  an  hour  ago  —  the 
snow'd  blocked  all  the  trains.  You  ought  to've 
seen  that  baby !  Lord,  he  was  hungry  —  like  a  lit- 
tle dog  at  his  soup,  when  my  wife  came,  begging 
Monsieur's  pardon  — 

Duke.     Then  he's  with  you  now  —  is  he  well? 

Nicolas.  Ah,  Monsieur  can  be  sure  of  that! 
Just  now  by  the  fireplace  I  left  him  grinning  at 
my  wife. 

Duke.  Then  what  are  you  talking  about, 
saying  things  aren't  going  well?  It  seems  to  me 
that  everything  is  perfect? 

Nicolas.  Everything's  all  right  for  the 
youngster,  but  the  mother,  that's  different ! 
When  I  told  her  her  room  was  ready,  and  says 
to  her  to  tell  us  a  few  days  ahead  when  she  was 
coming,  so  as  to  have  time  to  get  things  ready, 
she  answered  —  well,  you  ought  to  have  heard 
her!  —  she  didn't  want  the  room;  she  wasn't 
coming  more  than  two  or  three  times  a  year,  and 
stay  for  an  hour  or  so  just  to  see  the  baby,  and 
she'd  come  when  she  liked,  without  letting  us 
know  ahead  of  time.  You  could  have  knocked 
me  over  with  a  feather  to  hear  her  talk  the  way 
she  did;  'specially  as  Monsieur  le  due  had  the 
idea  she  was  going  to  stay  four  or  five  days  each 
time.  So  I  says  to  her,  "  Wait  a  minute !  Per- 
haps Mademoiselle  doesn't  remember  that  the 
house  Is  in  the  middle  of  the  wood,  no  one  hardly 

21 


FOUR  PLAYS 


ever  comes  here,  and  you  could  live  here  all  year 
and  be  safe.  If  my  wife  and  I  don't  go  around 
telling  tales,  the  squirrels'll  be  the  only  ones  to 
know  the  secret!  "  And  she  says  to  me,  "  I  re- 
member the  house.  I've  been  there  often 
enough,  on  my  walks  —  the  air  is  good  for  my 
son  —  I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  the 
rest — "  1  hat's  what  she  said,  Monsieur  le  due. 
—  I  think  she's  leading  you  a  merry  chase,  as 
they  say.  I  don't  think  that's  nice  of  her,  a  bit. 
I  don't  think  either  that  things  are  going  the  way 
Monsieur  le  due  wanted  'em  to  go,  about  her  room 
and  all  that. 

Duke.     Did  she  send  a  letter? 

Nicolas.  No.  Only  she  said  she  was  going 
back  to  Paris  to-night. 

Duke.  Very  well  —  I'll  arrange  to  come 
and  see  you  to-morrow.  [^Js  Nicolas  is  about  to 
go  the  Duke  intercepts  him.^  Tell  me,  he's 
good-looking  —  the  youngster  ? 

Nicolas.  Oh,  yes!  Should  have  heard  my 
wife  when  she  was  undressing  him  —  fine  set- 
up!—  Not  a  thing  the  matter  with  him  — ! 

Duke  [smi/ing].     And  his  face? 

Nicolas  [^laughing^.  His  face!  Oh,  if  I 
dared  talk  about  that  to  Monsieur  le  due,  but  if 
Monsieur  begins  — !  Well,  Monsieur,  I'd  like 
to  see  Monsieur  put  his  face  next  to  the  young- 
ster's.    People'll  see  the  resemblance  right  off  — 

Duke  [/'«  a  revery].  Take  good  care  of  him  I 
Good  evening! 

Nicolas  goes  out.^ 
Enter  the  Duchess.^ 

!3uKE.     So  he's  worse? 

22 


THE  FOSSILS 


Duchess  [(/oes  to  the  Duke,  and  takes  his 
hand  with  great  feeling].  Worse  than  we  imag- 
ine, dear! 

Duke  [with  concentrated  rage].  Are  we  go- 
ing to  stand  by  with  folded  arms  ?  Can't  we  do 
something?  There  are  plenty  of  new  remedies 
—  some  of  them  kill  at  once,  but  there  are  some 
that  are  absolutely  miraculous! 

Duchess,  Nothing  short  of  a  miracle  can 
save  Robert  —  his  lungs  are  all  eaten  away! 

Duke.  The  last  of  the  Chantemelles!  The 
end  of  the  family  ! 

Duchess  [in  despair].     Henri! 

Duke.  You  know  how  I  take  those  things 
to  heart!  Others  don't  attach  so  much  impor- 
tance to  them !  But  that  makes  no  difference  to 
me !  Let  me  mourn  for  our  whole  race  in  my 
only  son  —  my  son  ! 

Duchess.  I  can  think  only  of  him  —  poor 
child !  It  wasn't  so  very  long  ago  that  he  was 
running  about  the  park  in  short  trousers.  I  re- 
member how  he  used  to  come  in  with  his  burning 
red  cheeks,  and  his  legs  scratched  by  the  thistles  — 
[She  sobs.]      So  upright,  and  noble,  and  proud! 

Duke.  He  is  a  worthy  close  to  our  glorious 
line:  Robert  de  Chantemelle!  He  is  the  last  of 
us !  The  line  will  be  dead !  [He  accents  this 
last  zvord  in  so  strange  a  manner,  that  the  Du- 
chess quivers.      They  exchange  glances.] 

Duchess.  Dead!  [A  pause.]  Henri,  why 
do  you  look  at  me  that  way?  Do  you  know  — 
something? 

Duke.  Something?  What,  Anne?  What 
are  you  alluding  to  ? 

23 


FOUR  PLAYS 


Duchess.  I?  I  alluded  to  nothing,  it  was 
you  —  Robert  hasn't  the  slightest  suspicion  that 
you  know  his  secret  — 

Duke  [afic/rily].  1  don't  know  anything  about 
it.  Speak,  tell  me  whether  he  has  been  saying 
anything ! 

Duchess.     Robert  has  a  son. 

Duke.     What   are  you — ?     Robert,    a   son! 

—  And  the  mother — ? 
Duchess.     Helene  Vatrin  — 

Duke.     Do  you  mean — ?     Are  you  sure? 

Duchess.     Robert  told  me  so  just  now. 

Duke  [his  eyes  flashing,  his  fists  clenched, 
crosses  to  the  other  side  of  the  stage].  The 
damned  prostitute!  And  Robert!  Damned — 1 
If  he  wasn't  already  half  dead,  I'd  — 

Duchess  [terror-stricken,  throws  herself 
into  the  Duke's  arms,  and  prevents  his  going  to 
find  Robert].  Henri!  Henri!  It's  horrible! 
Henri,  you're  not  yourself! 

Duke.  Beautiful  goings-on  in  this  house! 
They  were  very,  very  lucky  I  didn't  discover 
them  — ! 

Duchess.     Henri,  for  Heaven's  sake,  be  calm 

—  a  scene  with  Robert  would  kill  him  ! 

Duke.  I'll  spare  him,  but  her  — !  She's  a  — 
a  — 

Duchess.  She?  A  poor  inexperienced 
young  girl  we  exposed  to  danger,  little  thinking  — 
We  left  her  free  all  day  long  with  a  young  man 
about — it  was  perfect  folly!  When  I  think — ! 
I  thought  I  was  doing  her  a  fa\or,  and  1  was  the 
cause  of  her  ruin  — 

Duke.  Damned  women,  with  their  sensitive- 
24 


THE  FOSSILS 


ness!  No,  of  course,  you  find  her  very  Interest- 
ing!—  You  don't  seem  to  remember  that  Rob- 
ert was  with  her  at  the  very  time  the  doctors  or- 
dered him  to  be  most  careful !  We  wondered  why 
he —     Your  dear  httle  protegee! 

Duchess.  Henri,  I  refuse  to  argue  about  it, 
unless  you  talk  more  calmly.  You  are  entirely  un- 
just. Helene  came  to  us  a  pure  girl;  if  she  leaves 
ruined,  whose  fault  is  it?  It's  not  at  all  gener- 
ous of  you  to  treat  her  the  way  you  do,  in  order  to 
escape  all  the  responsibility! 

Duke  [after  a  pause].  Very  well !  There  was 
something  inevitable  in  it  all !  Of  course,  she  may 
have  some  excuse  —  those  long  walks  with  Robert 
' —  we  must  have  been  blind  ! 

Duchess.  We  must  have. —  We  owe  some- 
thing to  her  now. 

Duke  [scowling].     What? 

Duchess.  If  not  to  her,  to  Robert's  son;  you 
don't  intend  to  abandon  him,  do  you? 

Duke    [pensively].     Robert's  son! 

Duchess.  It  is  no  more  than  just  that  we 
should  look  after  him. 

Duke.  Of  course  !  His  son  —  his  —  where 
is  he? 

Duchess.  With  his  mother,  doubtless,  in 
Paris. 

Duke  [considering/,  Jialf-smiling].  In 
Paris —  Don't  you  feci  as  if  you'd  like  to  — 
kiss  him?  Good  Lord,  he's  Robert's  son,  after 
all! 

Duchess.  You  are  very  good  at  bottom,  dear ! 
Now  I  am  ready  to  tell  you  of  the  promise  Robert 
induced  me  make  to  him.     He  wants  to  see  Hel- 

25 


FOUR  PLAYS 


ene  once  more  before  he  dies !  I  consented,  be- 
cause I  was  sure  you  would  let  him —  [Gesture 
from  the  Duke.]      Will  you? 

Duke  [quickly].  Very  well,  very  well,  it's  not 
a  matter  of  great  importance  —  [He  zvalks  about 
the  room.]  Let  her  come  —  she  may  stay  as  long 
as  she  likes,  or  go,  or  hang  herself,  for  all  I  care ! 
I'm  interested  in  the  child !  [Standing  before  his 
ziife,  his  arms  crossed.]  Then  Robert  is  not  the 
last  of  the  Chantemelles  ! 

Duchess.     You  admit  that  the  other — ? 

Duke.     Whether  I  admit  it  or  not,  he  is ! 

Duchess.     You  forget,  the  mother  — 

Duke,  Nothing!  But  now  I  come  to  think 
about  it,   she's  not  so  bad;  the   fact  that  she  — 

Duchess.  She  might  cause  us  a  great  deal  of 
trouble  if  she  tried  to  force  Robert  to  marry  her  — 
but  luckily,  she  is  not  thinking  of  doing  that.  My 
talk  with  Robert  led  me  to  believe  that  she  is  really 
quite  sensitive  on  the  point.  Then  Robert 
wouldn't  think  of  marrying  her. 

Duke  [bniskly].  He  might  consider  it, 
though  — 

Duchess  [surprised].     What? 

Duke.  Does  this  marriage  seem  something  to 
be  avoided  at  any  cost? 

Duchess.  Henri,  you  frighten  me.  Five 
minutes  ago,  you  were  fearfully  angry  —  you  were 
terrible  —  now  you  arc  joking!  This  is  not  the 
time  for  that! 

Duke.  I  was  angry  live  minutes  ago,  but  what 
leads  you  to  suppose  I  am  not  now?  At  least,  I 
am  not  joking. 

Duchess.     Then  you  are  serious?      It's  ridic- 
26 


THE  FOSSILS 


ulous !  I  admit,  Helene  Is  a  nice,  intelligent,  pre- 
sentable girl  — 

Duke  \^break'nig  forth].  Still  she's  only 
Helene,  with  all  her  niceness,  and  intelligence  — 
I  don't  care  about  that !  She  has  made  you  a 
grandmother;  keep  that  in  mind,  and  then  agree 
with  me  that  we  ought  to  marry  them. 

Duchess.     Ought  to  — ! 

Duke.  For  the  sake  of  the  child!  To  make 
him  legally  what  he  really  is :  a  Chantemelle ! 

Duchess.  Henri,  don't  do  it!  Think  of 
Mademoiselle  Vatrin  as  Claire's  sister!      Oh,  no! 

Duke.  It's  not  pleasant  to  think  about  —  by 
any  means!  —  But  what  can  we  do?  We  shall 
both  suffer,  you  and  I  —  I  more  than  you.  I  have 
always  wanted  a  grandson  —  and  now  I've  found 
him,  I  take  him  — 

Duchess.      Pick  him  up!     Find  him!! 

Duke  \^getting  angry].  That's  enough!  I 
want  to  —  and  when  I  say  "  I  want,"  I'm  deter- 
mined to  have  — ! 

Duchess.  My  wishes  never  had  very  much  in- 
fluence with  you  —  /  always  wanted  to  live  some- 
where else!  If  you  had  consented  to  leave 
your  woods  and  live  for  part  of  the  year  in  Paris, 
Claire  might  have  gone  into  society,  chosen  a  hus- 
band, and  not  have  been  exposed  to  all  this  — ! 
Mademoiselle  \'atrin  would  never  have  set  foot 
in  the  house,  and  Robert,  instead  of  burying  him- 
self in  the  country  and  brooding  over  the  past, 
would  probably  have  married,  and  you  wouldn't 
have  been  forced  to  pick  up  a  grandson  off  the 
streets  — 

Duke.  Charming!  I  am  to  blame  for  every- 
27 


FOUR  PLAYS 


thing!  I'm  to  blame  for  Robert's  sickness! 
Well,  if  my  will  has  been  the  cause  of  evil,  it's  now 
about  to  make  reparation:  Robert  will  marry 
Mademoiselle  Vatrin,  take  that  as  final.  I'm  not 
going  to  allow  any  woman  to  influence  me  in  a  mat- 
ter of  this  kind! 

Duchess.  Luckily  Robert  has  a  will  of  his 
own.  He  sees  this  matter  in  the  same  light  as  I 
do,  and  you  can't  domineer  over  him  as  you  can 
me  :  he's  a  man  ! 

Duke.      He  will  consent. 

Duchess.     No  ! 

Duke.      Here  he  is;  let  him  decide, 

[Enter  Robert.] 

Duke  [approaching  Jiim,  Jus  hands  folded  be- 
hind Jiis  back].     Ah,  you  gay  young  bird! 

Robert  [astonished].     Father! 

Duke  [good-hinnoredly].  I  hear  fine  news 
about  you  !  A  great  surprise  for  your  old  father 
[frith  a  slight  menace  in  his  words.]  who  ought  to 
shoot  you  — 

Duchess.     Henri ! 

Duke.  But  I  shan't!  I  have  something 
else  to  consider  now.  [Seriously.]  You  have  a 
son.  I  thank  you  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart  for 
perpetuating  the  family  line,  just  at  the  moment 
when  it  seemed  about  to  end.  Your  son!  I  claim 
him  in  order  that  our  name  shall  survive:  I  am  old 
and  you  are  —  not  well.  At  the  same  time,  I  shall 
ask  you  to  make  a  sacrifice  —  a  big  sacrifice,  for 
I    know    your  —  what    people    call  —  prejudice. 

Robert.  You  want  me  to  marry  Helene?  I 
thought  of  that  when  I  used  to  plan  how  to  per- 
petuate the  family  name  — 

28 


THE  FOSSILS 


Duke.     Well? 

Robert.     Well,  I  love  Helene  — 

Duke  [fiercely].  I  don't  see  how  that  detail 
makes  it  more  difficult! 

Robert.  It  does.  You  treat  this  marriage  as 
a  business  transaction.  Now,  in  considering  your 
proposal,  I  am  thinking  of  the  future  of  the  woman 
I  love.  Can  you  imagine  her  between  Mother 
and  Claire?  —  The  day  she  feels  she  is  not  abso- 
lutely an  equal  among  you,  I  shall  take  her  away. 

Duke.     Your  wife  will  be  an  equal ! 

Robert.  I  am  ready  to  marry  her.  I  don't 
think  I  owe  you  any  thanks  —  my  happiness  has 
nothing  to  do  with  this.  We  all  want  only  one 
thing  — 

Duchess.  Not  I,  Robert!  Your  father 
spoke  of  sacrifice ;  well,  the  real  sacrifice  will  be  for 
Claire  and  me. 

Duke  [with  hauteur].  You  have  no  idea 
what  you  are  talking  of! 

Duchess.  You  are  both  against  me!  I  con- 
sent, then,  but  let  us  say  nothing  more  this  evening. 
—  My  daughter's  companion  her  equal!  Oh,  no! 
I  hadn't  thought  of  that! 

[She  goes   out  in   high  indignation.] 

Robert.  I'll  follow  her  and  give  her  to  un- 
derstand that  there's  nothing  selfish  in  w^hat  I  am 
doing  — 

Duke.  Go,  and  don't  let  her  say  anything  to 
Claire ;  we  shall  let  her  know  at  the  last  minute  — 
Two  women  in  high  dudgeon  together  — ! 

Robert  [smiling].  Ah,  I  should  think  so! 
[He  goes  out.] 

Duke  [following  him  with  his  eyes].  If  he 
29 


FOUR  PLAYS 


only  knew  I  Well,  he  would  kill  me,  but  he  would 
think  all  the  same  that  I  govern  my  house  with  ad- 
mirable foresight.  And  to  think  of  that  little 
fellow,  how  quickly,  how  completely  he  has 
changed  the  fate  of  this  family!  A  crime?  Per- 
haps! We  must  not  do  things  by  halves,  and  the 
old  must  help  as  well  as  the  young!  What  differ- 
ence whose  is  the  child?  Our  blood  runs  in  his 
veins,  and  I  can  ask  no  more  ! 


[Curtain.] 


30 


ACT  II 

[Sajne  scene  as  in  the  first  act.  Through  the 
windows  are  seen  a  winter  landscape,  with  a 
bright  sun  shining  upon  it,  a  French  garden  cov- 
ered with  snow,  straight  paths  bordered  by 
dark  evergreens,  the  branches  of  which  are  dot- 
ted with  tufts  of  snow.  The  statues  are  en- 
cased in  a  thin  crust  of  ice;  the  water  in  the 
ba-sin  of  the  fountain  is  frozen,  but  the  fountain 
itself  is  running.  Icicles  cling  to  the  sides  of 
the  spout.  In  the  distance  is  the  forest  tinged 
with  frost  and  snow,  and  glistening  in  the  sun. 

As  the  curtain  rises,  Robert  is  alone,  waiting 
near  a  window.  He  is  carefully  dressed,  and 
wears  a  flower.  There  is  nothing  indicative  of 
the  negligent  patient  in  his  appearance.  After 
a  few  moments  Claire  enters,  goes  straight  to 
her  brother,  controlling  her  feelings,  which  are 
apparently  very  turbulent.^ 

Claire.  Robert,  I  know  whom  you  are  wait- 
ing for:  Mother  has  just  been  to  my  room  — 
now  I  see  why  you  have  been  so  mysterious  these 
past  two  days !  To  think  that  you  are  going  to 
marry  Helene  !     Oh,  Robert! 

Robert.  Did  Mother  tell  you  why  I  am  doing 
so? 

Claire.  Of  course!  But  to  tell  me  that,  after 
I  had  Helene  sent  away!      Poor  Mother!     She 

31 


FOUR  PLAYS 


murmured  something  about  your  loving  that 
woman,  that  they  would  consent  to  let  you  marry 
her  —  then  she  burst  out  crying  and  went  away.  I 
did  not  follow  her  to  get  further  details.  Robert, 
I  used  to  have  great  respect  for  you,  for  your 
strength  of  character;  you  can  have  no  idea  how 
hurt  I  am  to  hear  this! 

RoBKRT.  My  dear  little  Claire,  Helene  will  be 
here  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour  —  perhaps  sooner:  a 
sleigh  travels  quickly  in  this  weather  —  I'm  not 
very  strong  —  let  me  be  In  peace  until  she  comes; 
she  mustn't  find  me  stretched  out  on  the  sofa, 
gasping  for  breath.  That's  what  will  happen  if 
I  am  the  least  bit  over-excited. 

Claire.  You  can't  get  rid  of  me  so  easily  as 
that!  I  should  be  a  very  poor  sister  if  I  allowed 
you  to  do  what  you  wish,  merely  to  avoid  giving 
you  a  little  pain.  You  are  not  going  to  marry 
Helene! 

Robert.     But  Father  wishes  me  to ! 

Claire  {^with  horror^.  He  does!  He  must 
be  a  fool!  Give  me  a  reason,  at  least!  I  defy 
you,  Father  especially!  I  see  I  can  wait  for  mv 
reasons  !  Do  you  know  why  Father  wants  you  to  ? 
Do  you? 

Robert.     Do  you? 

Claire  [in  a  choked  voice'\.  Oh  —  T  —  what 
shall  I  say?  — 

Robert.  Father  wants  me  to  marry  because 
he  cannot  bear  the  idea  of  seeing  me  end  the  line 
of  Chantemelle ! 

Claire  [^embarrassed,  lo  lierself].  It's  only  a 
pretense!  [To  Robert.]  Couldn't  you  just  as 
well  marry  someone  else? 

32 


THE  FOSSILS 


Robert.     I  love  her! 

Claire.     Poor  Robert! 

Robert.  And  she  loves  me !  Otherwise,  she 
would  never  think  of  marrying  me ! 

Claire.  She  hasn't  a  sou,  she  has  no  — 
scruples  — 

Robert.  You  are  very  unjust  —  and  besides, 
it's  useless  to  try  to  persuade  me.  Even  if  Helene 
did  deserve  a  little  of  what  you  hold  against  her, 
I  should  marry  her  all  the  same.  It  happens  that 
the  sacrifice  is  pleasant  to  me.     That  is  all ! 

Claire.     A  sacrifice  for  the  sake  of  the  family? 

Robert.  Yes,  you  should  be  able  to  under- 
stand that! 

Claire.  Every  one  has  his  own  Ideas  about 
family  pride. 

Robert.     Oh ! 

Claire.  Our  families !  See  how  well  they  are 
treated  nowadays!  To  have  conquered  provinces 
for  the  country,  to  have  governed  them  for  cen- 
turies, and  then  to  lose  every  bit  of  influence  — 
why,  Father  can't  even  elect  himself  mayor  of  the 
town  here!  How  humiliating!  And  what  you 
must  have  suffered  not  to  have  been  able  to  work 
for  the  glory  of  your  land  !  How  I  pity  you,  when 
I  see  you  so  Inconsolable !  And  now  you  marry 
Helene  VatrIn  in  order  to  transmit  to  your  chil- 
dren the  creeds  and  Ideas  of  us  mummies  ! 

Robert  \_crying  out'\.  Claire!  Give  me  at 
least  the  credit  of  believing  that  in  the  face  of  death 
I  know  what  I'm  doing!  I  firmly  believe  that  in 
spite  of  this  Inferior  alliance,  our  family  Is  worth 
perpetuating.  This  Duke  de  Chantemelle  Is  noth- 
ing: ambassador,  minister,  prefect  —  nothing.     I 

Z3 


FOUR  PLAYS 


am  going  to  marry  Helene  because  I  am  positive 
that  the  country  would  otherwise  lose  a  living  and 
valuable  force  —  if  the  Dukes  of  Chantemelle  dis- 
appeared from  the  face  of  the  earth  — 

Claire  [ironicdllyl.  I  should  not  be  at  all 
surprised  if  you  had  made  that  discovery  since 
you  fell  in  love  with  Helene  ! 

Robert.  It  makes  no  difference  if  I  did,  so 
long  as  it  is  true. 

Claire  [ironically'].  Are  we  really  of  some 
use? 

Robert.  Yes,  because  we  are  well-born. 
Moral  heredity  is  an  incontestable  fact.  Cen- 
turies of  military  bravery,  intellectual  culture,  re- 
finement, ought  surely  to  produce  the  very  best 
sort  of  men  and  women.  Nobility  is  not  a  preju- 
dice:  the  aristocracy  is  a  museum  of  all  that  is 
best  in  chivalry ! 

Claire  [bitterly].  A  museum  as  isolated  as  a 
hospital! 

Robert.  That  spreads  the  contagion  of  devo- 
tion! Disinterested  science,  for  example,  the  sort 
that  has  nothing  to  do  with  dividends,  exists  only 
among  the  aristocrats.  In  the  United  States,  there 
are  wonderful  inventors,  but  they  have  only  one 
end  in  view :  to  get  as  much  money  as  possible ! 
We  must  look  to  Europe,  with  its  atmosphere  of 
the  old  aristocracy,  to  see  great  geniuses  devoting 
their  lives  to  the  good  of  humanity !  And  to  think 
that  the  crude  and  simple  chivalry  of  the  Middle 
Age  was  all  the  time  preparing  for  the  glorious 
poverty  of  the  great  thinkers  of  to-day  !  Granted 
even  that  this  is  an  exaggeration,  the  whole  idea  is 
at   least   compatible    with    modern   life.      Do    we 

34 


THE  FOSSILS 


amount  to  nothing  then  in  the  France  of  to-day? 
No,  if  we  are  forgotten  and  neglected  and  de- 
spised, we  at  least  repay  ingratitude  by  showing  the 
true  spirit  of  resignation ! 

Claire  [inspired  by  Robert's  words].  How 
true!  How  splendid!  We  «r^  something!  The 
poor  live  only  because  of  us;  we  are  not  useful  in 
politics,  but  we  know  how  to  console  those  who 
deny  our  very  existence  !  When  the  Fatherland  is 
in  trouble,  there  is  no  question  about  the  nobility 
—  those  little  marquis'  who  know  nothing  except 
how  to  hunt  and  dance !  Robert,  you  are  right, 
we  still  have  a  part  to  play! 

Robert.  Forgive  me  then  for  wanting  to  live  ! 
Not  myself,  but  in  my  race! 

Claire.  You  have  taught  me  what  we  owe  to 
the  race,  to  our  family.  I  was  born  in  a  hunting- 
lodge.  How  often  have  you  argued  with  me, 
gently,  never  annoyed  with  me,  about  the  breeding 
of  your  dogs  and  horses:  you  ought  at  least  then 
to  have  the  same  respect  for  your  family !  You 
should  want  to  live  as  you  say  you  do,  in  your  son, 
but  you  must  live  too  for  your  own  sake :  for  the 
sake  of  this  body  of  yours,  worn  out  by  discourage- 
ment. You  need  the  strength  and  the  will  to  be 
useful  even  now!  Let  me  receive  Helene  first. 
Don't  worry,  I  know  exactly  what  to  say  to  her ! 
Ten  minutes  later,  she  will  be  gone,  for  ever. 
Then  we'll  save  you. 

Robert.  Why  do  you  say  you  will  save  me? 
I  have  only  one  hope,  but  not  what  you  think.  In 
my  future  there  is  a  tiny  ray  of  brightness — a 
single  ray !  Tell  me,  what  if  our  long  empty  hall- 
ways resounded  with  the  cry  of  a  child,  wouldn't 

35 


FOUR  PLAYS 


you  be  happy?  I  am,  even  to  think  of  it!  Tell 
me,  doesn't  your  instinct  —  ? 

Clairk  [seriously].  I  did  not  come  here  to 
talk  about  instinct !  I  know  whom  to  speak  to 
now;  I'm  wasting  my  breath  here ! 

[Enter  the  Duke  and  Duchess. 1 

Duke   [to  Robert  and  Claire].     A  little  tiff? 

Robert  [to  the  Duke].  She  is  giving  me 
some  plain  advice  about  my  marriage;  I  am  not  at 
all  satisfied  with  her  attitude.  Mother  must  have 
told  her  everything.  She  just  now  refused  to  dis- 
cuss the  matter  further  with  me.  She  intends  to 
talk  with  you.  Tell  her  that  in  marrying  Helena 
I  am  acting  according  to  your  wishes.  [Claire 
listens  in  terror.]  Mother,  stay  with  me  :  I  want 
Helene  to  see  the  expression  on  my  face  when  she 
comes:  the  facade  of  the  House  of  Chantemelle 
must  present  a  cheerful  appearance. 

Duchess  [zvhile  Robert  goes  to  the  inindow]. 
I  am  so  glad  to  see  him  happy! 

[She  joins  Robert,  and  both  watch  for  Helene.] 

Duke  [to  Claire].  What  Robert  says  is  true: 
he  is  going  to  marry  because  I  want  him  to. 

Claire  [in  an  undertone].  This  is  more  hor- 
rible than  I  had  ever  imagined  ! 

Duke.     What's  the  trouble? 

Claire  [indicating  Robert].  I  shan't  tell  you 
here:  come  to  my  room!  You  will  take  pity  on 
him,  or  me  — 

Duke.  Go  to  your  room,  I  will  follow  you  in 
a  moment. 

Claire.  I'his  is  my  last  word:  before  this 
evening,  one  of  us  will  have  sent  Mademoiselle 
Vatrin  out  of  the  house;  I  hope  it  will  be  you! 

36 


THE  FOSSILS 


[^She  goes  out,  leaving  the  Duke  petrified. 
First  he  goes  to  the  fireplace,  then  returns  to 
folloiv  Claire,  then  hesitates,  looking  to- 
ward his  zcife  and  son.     Robert  calls  to  him.] 

Robert.     Listen!     The  bells!     It's  she! 

l^The  sound  of  approaching  sleigh-bells  is  heard 
outside.] 

Duke  [going  to  the  zvindozc].  I  do  hear  — 
yes  — 

Robert  [his  face  close  to  the  zvindow].  Why 
can't  we  see?  There  Is  nothing  so  far  as  the  eye 
can  reach  across  the  snow. 

Duke.  She  Is  coming  from  the  wood  —  you'll 
see  her  turn  when  she  comes  around  by  the 
stables  — 

Robert.  Why  the  wood?  It's  much  longer 
that  way  ? 

Duke.  I  wanted  to  give  you  a  little  surprise, 
a  present  for  not  having  written  to  her,  and  for 
allowing  your  parents  to  inform  her  of  the  state 
of  affairs!  She  is  coming  from  the  forester's  cot- 
tage, where  she  has  left  the  child  with  Nicolas' 
wife,  who  has  just  recently  had  a  child  —  she  Is 
going  to  nurse  the  little  fellow.  Nicolas  and 
his  wife  are  splendid  people  and  can  keep  the 
secret  — 

Robert  [interrupting].  It  was  very  good  of 
you  !      I'm  going  to  see  him  — 

Duke  [intercepts  him].  Do  me  the  favor  of 
coming  with  your  mother  into  the  billiard-room 
—  wait  until  I  call  you.  As  head  of  the  family 
I  wish  to  be  the  first  to  receive  Mademoiselle 
Vatrin:  she  is  not  yet  aware  that  she  is  to  be  your 
wife.     You   might   appear   a   little   too   happy   in 

37 


FOUR  PLAYS 


telling  her  about  it;  I  shall  tell  her  in  quite  an- 
other manner.  Her  coming  here  shall  not  be  a 
triumphal  entry;  I  am  afraid  she  doesn't  yet  feel 
the  enormous  responsibility  that  goes  with  our 
name,  which  she  will  assume  so  easily.  Let  me, 
at  the  very  door  of  this  house,  explain  what  will 
be  expected  of  her.  Then,  Robert,  she  is  yours! 
—  Go  now  — 

[Robert  and  his   mother  go  out.      The  Duke 
looks    out   of   the   iv'nidozv   an   instant,    then 
comes  hack  to  meet  Helene. 
Helene,  dressed  in  a  simple  travelincj  suit,  enters. 
She  is  pretty,  but  now  appears  timid  and  sad. 
Seeing  the  Duke,  she  is  about  to  faint;  quiver- 
ing with  emotion,  she  leans  against  the  door. 
After  a  pause,  the  Duke  turns  to  her.^ 
Duke  [dryly].     Come  here!     [She  approaches 
him,  very  much  afraid.]      Yes,  it's  I!     Are  you 
surprised?     The  child's  nurse  just  told  you  I  had 
gone    away;   well,    she    did    as   she   was   told.      I 
wanted  to  encourage  you  to  come.     You  see,  the 
Duchess  wrote  you  that  Robert  was  very  ill,  and 
authorized  you  to  come  —  not  a  word  from  the 
Duke  —  Robert,  too,  wanted  to  write,  but  I  did 
not  let  him.      Now  I  have  a  piece  of  news  to  an- 
nounce—  Sit     down!     You're     trembling  —  I'm 
not  angry  with  you !      You  don't  know  what  I  am 
going  to  tell  you  ! 

Helene  [wringing  her  hands;  in  a  feeble 
choked  voice].  Oh,  please!  I  was  weak  enough 
to  be  your  mistress  almost  as  soon  as  I  came  here. 
T  was  only  twenty-two,  I  knew  nothing.  Monsieur 
Robert  was  away  then  in  Palestine;  when  he  came 
back  I  fell  in  love  with  him  —  and  he  knew  it! 

38 


THE  FOSSILS 


[She  hides  her  face.']  Don't  despise  me!  I  love 
him  as  deeply  as  a  woman  can  love  a  man!  His 
love  is  the  only  thing  that  sustained  me  —  I  didn't 
have  the  strength  to  leave  you !  For  two  years  I 
lived  a  terrible  life  —  I  never  saw  you  that  I 
didn't  make  up  my  mind  to  stop  everything  — 
with  you,  I  didn't  dare !  I  waited  and  waited,  too 
afraid  to  do  anything!  Then  the  baby  came,  and 
I  had  to  depend  on  you.  But  once  I  was  away,  I 
wasn't  afraid  of  you,  and  when  the  forester's  wife 
asked  me  to  stay  sometimes  with  her  I  had  the 
strength  to  refuse !  You  see,  I  have  a  little  cour- 
age left  — 

Duke  [brutally].  What  are  you  talking 
about?  What  has  Robert's  mistress  to  do  with 
Robert's  father?  Get  rid  of  that  idea!  Robert 
is  madly  in  love  with  you  !      Marry  him  ! 

Helene  [terror-stricken].  I?  Marry  Rob- 
ert?! 

Duke.  You  must.  I  want  an  heir  to  carry  on 
my  name;  now  I  have  one !  I  don't  care  by  what 
means,  but  I  have  one  !  Never  mind  who  or  what 
you  are  !  You  are  that  heir's  mother  !  You  love 
my  son,  don't  you?  You  wrote  me  a  letter  that 
was  rather  touching  some  time  ago,  before  the 
child  was  born,  and  told  me  to  take  care  of  him  in 
case  you  died.  There  was  nothing  unreasonable 
in  that  —  of  course  we  should  look  after  the  little 
one.  Now  we  want  to  make  a  duke  of  him  — 
give  him  our  name,  our  fortune,  everything! 

Helene.  There's  not  only  my  son  to  think 
about,  but  Robert!  He  is  your  son,  Robert! 
Do  you  love  him?  And  yet  you  talk  of  this  mar- 
riage ! 

39 


FOUR  PLAYS 


Duke.  Robert  is  my  son,  but  the  other  Is 
something  to  me  also.  Fate  demands  that  I  sac- 
rifice one  of  them.  One  is  young  and  full  of  hope, 
the  other  we  are  already  mourning  —  why  should 
I  hesitate  between  the  two?  Furthermore,  I  have 
promised  that  Robert  shall  marry  you  —  refuse 
him  now !  Can't  you  see,  he  will  aslc  you  ques- 
tions; what  will  you  tell  him  if  he  learns  the  truth? 
Come  now,  everything  is  to  your  advantage :  an 
honorable  name  for  yourself,  a  title  for  your  son 
—  Robert's  son.  That  little  mite  is  everything! 
I  am  willing  to  kill  for  his  sake,  if  necessary! 
Give  him  to  us,  for  always,  irrevocably !  Is  it  a 
bargain?  Don't  answer  yet !  You  can't  answer ! 
Tell  Robert!  Meantime,  you're  in  great  danger. 
Somehow,  I  can't  imagine  how,  Claire  has  discov- 
ered everything.  She  is  opposed  to  all  this.  If 
she  says  anything,  the  marriage  cannot  take  place  I 
Robert  would  be  broken-hearted,  demand  an  ex- 
planation, and  I  —  Well,  what  could  I  an- 
swer —  ? 

Helene.     Then  why  did  I  come? 

Duke.  Claire  doesn't  know  yet  that  there  is  a 
child.  She  is  more  concerned  with  our  traditions, 
our  long  family  line,  than  any  of  us,  and  perhaps 
she  will  feel  as  deeply  as  I  do  about  perpetuating 
the  name.  I  shall  go  and  see  her  now,  and  in  five 
minutes  everything  will  be  arranged. 

[He  goes  out  by  the  doivn-stage  door.  Enter 
Claire  at  the  back,  left.  She  stops  on  seeing 
Helene.^ 

Claire.  My  father  is  looking  for  me,  isn't 
he?      [Helene  makes  a  vague  gesture.]      Made- 

40 


THE  FOSSILS 


moiselle,  I  am  glad  to  have  an  opportunity  of  talk- 
ing with  you  alone;  as  we  have  only  a  few  mo- 
ments, I  shall  go  straight  to  the  point!  Robert  is 
not  going  to  marry  you  — 

Helene.  I  don't  ask  anything  —  I  want  to  do 
what  will  be  best  for  Robert ! 

Claire.  To  save  him  from  disgrace  is  best 
for  Robert!  I  know  who  you  are:  one  evening 
last  summer  I  was  walking  by  the  pond  —  you 
were  with  Father  in  the  boat,  and  neither  of  you 
was  any  too  careful  —  I  was  out  all  that  night,  a 
few  feet  from  you  —  once  I  was  on  the  point  of 
asking  for  a  place  in  the  boat  —  I  heard  things 
that  made  my  blood  run  cold.  In  one  second  my 
purity  of  mind  was  gone,  my  respect  and  affection 
were  killed  !  That  episode  has  blackened  my  life. 
I  had  you  sent  away,  but  I  felt  just  the  same  as  be- 
fore —  the  same  torture.  And  now  you  have 
come  back  to  poison  my  life  again!  Your  plan 
will  fail  this  time :  I  am  going  to  tell  Robert 
everything! 

Helene.     And  kill  him  ! 

Claire.  He  will  thank  me  for  sparing  him  a 
few  days  of  life  in  a  world  where  God  allows  such 
things  to  happen ! 

l^Enter  the  Duke.  He  takes  in  the  situation 
at  a  glance.  He  comes  and  stands  between 
them.] 

Duke  [-with  severity"].  Claire,  who  asked  you 
to  come  ?  You  ought  to  have  waited  until  I  saw 
you ! 

Claire.  I  changed  my  mind.  I  couldn't  think 
clearly  then  about  what  you  had  determined  to  do. 

41 


FOUR  PLAYS 


Even  after  I  considered  It,  I  couldn't  understand. 
I  have  now  given  up  trying  to  persuade:  I  am 
threatening! 

Duke  [violently'].     Keep  still ! 

Claire.  Nothing  can  make  me  keep  still  — 
my  conscience  — 

Duke  [zvith  blind  fury'].  Keep  still,  I  tell  you  ! ! 
Never  mind  about  your  conscience !  There  are 
certain  things  a  daughter  doesn't  say  to  her  father! 
If  you  forget  yourself  again  you'll  end  your  days 
in  a  convent,  or  else  I'll  turn  you  out  of  the 
house  — 

Claire.  I'd  rather  end  my  days  in  a  convent, 
or  walk  the  streets,  than  breathe  this  atmosphere 
of  disgrace  and  shame — ! 

Helene.  Monsieur  le  due,  I  ought  to  leave;  I 
am  willing  not  to  see  Robert,  to  be  sent  away  — 
I  am  willing —  Only  let  Mademoiselle  spare  her 
brother,  and  help  you  explain  to  him  why  I  am 
leaving. 

Duke  [after  a  moment' s  rejection,  to  Helene, 
sympathetically].  Let  me  have  a  word  with  her 
in  private !  [Helene  nods.  He  conducts  her  to 
the  down-stage  door,  and  sees  her  out.  He  then 
returns  to  Claire.]  Claire,  I  give  in.  For  the 
first  time,  you  have  called  my  authority  into  ques- 
tion! You  have  your  weapons,  you  can  prevent 
me  from  doing  what  I  want  to  do.  I  shan't  argue 
further.  Only  know  this:  from  now  on  there  is 
no  intimacy  between  us  ! 

Claire.  I  expect  to  be  unhappy.  With  my 
courage  — 

Duke.  That  is  your  affair.  You  may  as  well 
know  what  this  blow  will  mean  to  Robert!     Yes, 

42 


THE  FOSSILS 


and  to  all  of  us!  It  is  not  hard  to  accuse  your 
father,  and  tell  him  how  disgusted  you  are;  you're 
hardly  more  than  a  little  boarding-school  miss  — 
your  mother  was  unwise  enough  to  tell  you  every- 
thing, a  child  of  your  age !  I  am  now  talking  to 
you  as  I  would  to  a  judge,  a  righter  of  wrongs : 
I  have  nothing  to  hide  from  you.  Robert  has  a 
son  by  Mademoiselle  Vatrin. 

Claire  [to  herself].     He!     A  Son?! 

Duke.  Whom  we  have  decided  to  adopt, 
make  one  of  the  fam.ily,  in  order  not  to  let  the 
line  die  out.  If  the  child  had  not  lived,  Robert 
would  think  nothing  more  about  the  mother  — 
he  would  not  marry  her.  For  myself,  I  am  open- 
ing this  house  to  a  woman  who  bears  in  her 
arms  a  sacred  gift;  I  use  the  word  "  sacred"  ad- 
visedly. I  want  you  to  weigh  the  matter  care- 
fully. You  blamed  Robert  for  being  selfish  in 
the  face  of  death,  and  you  blamed  me  because  I 
was  sacrificing  him  to  I  don't  know  what  mon- 
strosities. Every  word  of  that  is  false.  Robert 
is  sacrificed,  and  so  am  I,  but  I  haven't  the  right 
to  consider  that  for  a  moment.  Both  of  us  are 
sacrificed,  thank  God !  to  an  ideal,  an  Ideal  which 
you  are  as  anxious  as  we  to  preserve  as  best  we 
can ! 

Claire.  A  son ! !  Poor  Robert !  His  eyes 
were  filled  with  tears  when  he  told  me  how  splen- 
did it  would  be  to  have  the  empty  corridors  filled 
with  the  voices  of  children!  And  to  think  I  was 
ignoble  enough  to  appear  dissatisfied  with  him  ! 
And  the  brutal  way  I  answered  !  That  is  what 
he  meant  when  he  spoke  of  instinct!  His  love 
as    a    father !      I    thought    he    meant    something 

43 


FOUR  PLAYS 


quite  different !  How  could  I  have  been  so  mis- 
taken !  Sometimes,  at  night,  when  I'm  sitting  by 
the  fire,  while  the  wind  whistles  outside,  and  the 
wolves  howl  just  under  the  window,  all  at  once 
clear  ringing  voices  come  to  me  and  I  wake  up 
holding  to  my  breast  the  end  of  a  phantom  — 
it  is  that  same  instinct  —  then  it  goes  away  — 
but  it  is  always  in  Robert!  Sometimes  I  almost 
go  crazy.  Now  you  tell  me  there  is  a  child !  It 
may  be  near  at  this  moment!  Papa,  why  are  you 
looking  at  me  that  way?  Is  he  in  the  house  — 
now  ? ! 

Duke.  Almost:  he  is  with  Nicolas  —  go  and 
see  him  —  I  could  not  resist  the  temptation  — 

Claire.  Can  I?  [Slowly.]  Then  it  is  no 
longer  a  dream,  a  vision!  Then  I  am  killing  a 
real  child,  a  child  I  could  take  in  my  arms,  a 
child  Robert  adores,  his  own  flesh  and  blood! 
Oh,  if  you  had  only  heard  him!  He  wants  his 
son  to  be  perfect  in  everything,  because  a  noble 
birth  gives  one  moral  superiority!  Poor  boy! 
He  is  forgetting  the  mother!  No,  he  is  not  for- 
getting her,  he  doesn't  know!  The  mother! 
Ha,  what  is  her  heritage,  what  does  she  bring 
us? 

Duke.  What  are  you  talking  about?  Most 
of  our  ancestors  were  statesmen  and  celebrated 
generals;  I  once  dreamed  of  being  great,  like 
them  —  but  I've  had  to  pass  my  life  doing  noth- 
ing. I  have  tried  to  forget  myself  in  hunting! 
There  is  nothing  like  country  life  to  soothe 
wounded  pride!  During  the  war,  I  was  no 
longer  a  young  man,  so  that  I  had  to  enlist  as 
a  simple  soldier  or  else   stay  home  by  iny  own 

44 


THE  FOSSILS 


fire-side.  I  enlisted,  looking  for  great  deeds  to 
do  and  a  glorious  death;  I  came  home  diseased 
and  defeated.  I  had  added  nothing  to  the  honor 
of  our  name.  Now,  for  God's  sake,  don't  let  the 
line  die  out!  We  can  still  work  for  the  glory 
of  our  country,  the  glory  that  has  been  handed 
down  to  us,  until  one  day  a  Chantemelle,  more  in- 
telligent or  more  fortunate,  shall  arise  and  do 
honor  to  us !  Don't  you  feel  that  basic  desire  to 
live,  to  make  some  place  in  the  world,  to  exist 
afterwards  —  in  others? 

Claire  [overcome].  Oh,  Papa!  with  all 
my  soul! 

Duke.  No,  you  don't!  Otherwise  you  would 
have  pitied  me!  Robert  and  I  cannot  last  much 
longer.  Don't,  don't  take  these  visions  of  the 
future  from  us ! 

Claire.  You  think  I  am  indifferent!  I  have 
devoted  myself,  given  up  my  life  because  of 
these  terrible  agonies  I  have  been  going  through! 
[Bowing  her  head.]  If  you  ask  pity  of  me,  you 
must  in  turn  at  least  pity  me  !  If  I  am  to  become 
your  —  accomplice,  I  shall  be  in  a  terrible  situa- 
tion —  pity  me ! 

Duke.  You  an  accomplice?  In  what?  You 
have  only  to  say  nothing! 

Claire.  Isn't  that  terrible  enough?  Then  I 
shall  have  been  the  cause  of  this  marriage!  If 
I  say  a  word,  it  will  not  take  place ! 

Duke.  If  it  does  not  take  place  you  will  be 
the  executioner  of  the  race ! 

Claire.  That's  what  tortures  me !  To  put 
such  responsibility  on  the  shoulders  of  a  young 
girl  like  me!     What  will  happen  to  us  if  I  don't 

45 


FOUR  PLAYS 


tell  Robert?  His  child  is  our  glory,  the  center 
of  all  our  ambitions,  of  our  very  life,  everything! 
But  can  we  forget  the  mother?  That  woman! 
Can't  you  see  what  a  hell  my  life  has  been  because 
of  her?  Can't  you  see  how  afraid  of  you  all  I 
have  been?  If  she  comes  back,  I  shall  never 
live  in  peace  again !  Yet  I  am  willing  to  submit, 
to  be  miserable,  to  bear  the  weight  of  shame  and 
responsibility  which  I  have  no  right  to  bear.  I, 
the  little  boarding-school  miss!  What  hope  have 
I?  I  wish  I  were  dead!  I  wish  I  knew  what 
to  do ! ! 

Duke  [solemnly].  Claire,  I  swear  that  you 
ought  to  do  this:  it  is  your  duty  to  obey  the 
head  of  your  family.  Why  have  I  educated  you 
to  look  back  to  the  glory  of  our  house,  if  I  now 
ask  something  unworthy  of  the  past?  F^or  that 
reason,  I  beg  you !  On  my  honor,  on  the  honor 
of  my  son  who  is  about  to  die,  I  promise  you 
that  this  marriage  will  save  our  name! 

Claire.     I  believe  you. 

Duke.     Thank  you,  Claire! 

Claire  \_going  to  the  door  behind  which 
Helene  is  waiting].     Come,  Helene ! 

\_Enter  Helene.] 

I  accept  a  great  responsibility:  I  shall  never 
abandon  the  woman  who  is  about  to  become  Rob- 
ert's wife!  I  cannot  be  expected  to  be  a  real 
friend  —  an  affectionate  friend  —  but  I  promise 
to  be  a  devoted  sister.  When  you  are  in  trou- 
ble come  to  me.  1  offer  you  this  in  all  loyalty, 
Helene ! 

Duke.     Let  us  go  to  Robert  — ! 

[He  steps  back,  allozcing  Helene  and  Claire 
46 


THE  FOSSILS 


to  pass  him.  Claire  allows  Helene  to  precede 
her  out  of  the  room.  Helene  gives  evidence 
of  extreme  nervousness  as  the  Duke  and 
Claire  look  at  her. 

The  curtain  falls  only  after  the  stage  is 
empty  and  the  door  closed.^ 

[Curtain.] 


47 


ACT  III 

[A  villa  in  the  Jicighhorhood  of  Nice,  sit- 
uated in  the  open  country.  The  scene  repre- 
sents a  large  room  elegantly  but  rather  flashily 
furnished,  the  kind  usually  found  in  rented 
houses  at  seaside  resorts.  Doors  to  the  right 
and  left.  At  the  back,  all  the  way  across  the 
stage  is  a  large  bay  zvindozu,  through  which 
the  sea  appears  sparkling  under  a  brilliant  sky. 
To  the  left,  outside,  a  reef  with  the  foam  of 
waves  breaking  over  it. 

Robert  is  alone,  stretched  out  on  a  sofa. 
His  legs  are  covered  with  a  plaid  blanket.  He 
appears  to  be  asleep.  Enter  Helcne;  she 
closes  the  door  noiselessly  and  approaches  the 
sofa  on  tip-toe.  Robert  opens  his  eyes  and 
speaks  to  her  without  turning  his  head.] 

Robert.     Is  that  you,  Helene? 

Helene  [leaning  over  him  and  kissing  his  fore- 
head].    Yes,     Have  you  had  a  nice  sleep? 

Robert.  Couldn't  close  my  eyes!  I  tossed 
about,  thinking,  always  thinking!  That  attack 
yesterday  —  If  my  mother  hadn't  happened  to 
come  in  the  moment  I  lost  consciousness,  I  should 
have  died — [Pressing  his  hand  to  his  lips.] 
There's  always  that  taste  of  blood  in  my  mouth! 
The  hemorrhage  there,  ready  to  choke  me  any 

48 


THE  FOSSILS 


moment !  —  What  about  this  south  that  was  go- 
ing to  cure  me?     This  famous  south! 

Helene.  We've  been  here  hardly  two  weeks  ! 
It  would  be  miraculous  if  already  — 

Robert  [interrupting  her].  My  poor  girl, 
our  marriage  !  the  first  month  isn't  over  yet —  [A 
long  pause,  during  which  he  Jiolds  her  hand 
pressed  to  his  lips.]  Why  didn't  they  bring 
Henri  this  morning?     Where  is  he? 

Helene.  In  front  of  the  house,  playing  in 
the  sand.  [Going  toward  the  window.]  Shall 
I  call  and  have  him  brought  in? 

Robert.  Later!  I  have  so  many  things  to 
ask  you  to  take  care  of!  My  parents  are  old, 
soon  you  will  be  the  only  one  left.  And  you'll 
need  help  so  badly.  [JFith  an  effort.]  And  — 
dearest!  It's  impossible  for  me  to  conceive  that 
your  happiness  no  longer  depends  on  me  alone! 

Helene  [gravely].  It  is  in  your  hands,  Rob- 
ert. 

Robert.     What  do  you  mean? 

Helene.  Listen :  I  should  never  have  spoken 
of  this  unless  you  had  begun.  I  should  have 
preferred  to  be  miserable  till  the  last.  But  since 
you  have  opened  the  subject  —  Please,  Robert, 
arrange  matters  so  that  if  —  if  I  have  to  lose  you, 
I  can  go  off  with  little  Henri  w^herever  I  wish.  I 
want  a  home  of  my  own. 

Robert  [rising].  Leave  the  family?  Here  I 
was  deeply  concerned  because  I  was  afraid  you 
would  be  left  alone,  and  now  you  ask  to  be  ! 

Helene.  W^ithout  you,  do  you  think  I  could 
be  anything  else  but  alone?  Among  these  peo- 
ple whom  I  am  afraid  of  ?     Yes,  afraid!     Of  the 

49 


FOUR  PLAYS 


Duke  especially!  I  should  be  completely  at  his 
mercy!  I  don't  even  dare  raise  my  voice  against 
him  now  !     Help  me  !     They  despise  me  ! 

Robert.  I  have  never  heard  a  word  from 
them  to  cause  my  wife  to  be  ashamed  or  humili- 
ated.     I  should  never  have  allowed  it ! 

Helene.  Not  a  word  has  been  spoken! 
They  are  forced  to  treat  me  as  an  equal,  and 
they  do  their  duty!  They  are  heroically  polite, 
so  polite  that  when  the  slightest  attention  is  paid 
me,  I  blush  with  shame ! 

Robert.  You  don't  mean  Claire?  Claire  is 
very  good  to  you,  isn't  she? 

liELENE  [ironically].     Tome?     Claire? 

Robert.  Don't  you  think  so?  If  it  hadn't 
been  for  her,  perhaps  we  should  never  have  been 
married.  Mother  thought  it  her  duty  to  raise 
every  imaginable  objection:  but  Claire  made  God 
knows  what  oath  to  her,  and  the  objections  dis- 
appeared. After  the  ceremony,  do  you  remem- 
ber how  she  found  occasion  —  awkwardly  enough 
—  to  say  that  she  knew  of  the  existence  of  the 
child,  and  that  he  should  not  be  kept  from  her 
any  longer  out  of  respect  for  her?  What  made 
my  father  decide  to  come  ahead  here  and  get 
this  house  for  us?  Who  went  with  him?  Who 
found  this  hidden  retreat,  where  we  can  now  en- 
joy peace  with  our  son  for  a  little  while?  I  think 
we  owe  pretty  nearly  everything  to  Claire! 

Helene.  Do  you  think  she  has  done  all  this 
for  my  sake?  She  swallowed  her  dislike  for  me 
for  the  sake  of  the  baby,  because  that  baby  is 
the  future  of  her  family;  she  would  make  any  sac- 
rifice for  that! 

50 


THE  FOSSILS 


Robert.  Very  noble  of  her!  So  much  the 
worse  for  those  who  disparage  her  for  doing 
it!  The  honor  of  manlcind  is  in  itself  a  small 
and  insignificant  handful  of  sacrifices,  but  it  typi- 
fies all  that  is  sublime. 

Helene  [with  dignity'].  Very  well,  I  can't 
see  it  in  that  light !  I  was  born  without  your 
ideas,  your  delicacy  of  feeling  about  those  things ! 
[^Becoming  excited.]  But  do  they  think  I  have 
no  feelings  at  all  ?  They  make  me  feel  from  morn- 
ing to  night  that  I  am  an  inferior  being,  and  must 
be  treated  as  such !  If  I  weren't  a  poor  simple 
fool  — !      I  must  stand  it  all  because  I  love! 

Robert  [/;/  consternat'wn].  Helene!  The 
idea !  To  think  you  could  imagine  I  was  hurting 
you  by  what  I  said !  This  only  goes  to  show  how 
easily  you  are  offended!  My  parents  don't  feel 
that  way  about  you ! 

Helene  [ironically].     You  think  so? 

Robert.  Certainly.  Why  should  Claire  and 
I  hav-e  different  ideas  from  yours?  Does  our 
education,  which  you  had  no  opportunity  of  hav- 
ing, make  you  an  inferior  creature?  We  all  look 
into  the  heavens  at  night:  the  stars  belong  to 
every  one !  You  might  at  least  humor  me,  and 
let  me  preserve  the  illusion  that  keeps  me  alive ! 
It  is  true,  I  am  proud  of  my  title!  They  say 
that  riches  is  merely  accumulated  labor;  well,  no- 
bility is  merely  accumulated  honor.  Helene, 
don't  let  me  think  that  you  despise  the  nobility: 
it  is  your  first  duty  to  educate  our  child  to  re- 
spect it. 

Helene.  My  dear,  I  shall  do  my  full  duty 
by  the  child,  provided  he  remains  my  child,  and 

51 


FOUR  PLAYS 


not  the  child  of  a  tyrannical  and  jealous  clan  I 
Believe  me,  O  Robert!  Could  I  talk  so  calmly 
of  the  time  when  you  won't  be  with  us  any  longer, 
if  I  didn't  think  I  was  standing  at  this  moment 
before  the  very  gates  of  hell  ? !  Save  me !  Don't 
let  them  drag  me  back  with  them  to  that  dreary 
home,  where  sad-faced  members  of  the  House  of 
Chantemelle  live  and  look  like  antique  armor!  I 
have  loved  you  because  you  were  the  only  one 
in  that  place  who  had  a  heart  like  mine!  It 
would  break  that  heart,  Robert,  if  — 

Robert.  But  why  should  I  oppose  my  author- 
ity to  theirs?  Legally  they  have  no  rights  over 
you  !     They  can't  force  you  ! 

Helene.  I  haven't  the  courage  to  resist!  If 
I  went  back  to  Chantemelle  I  should  never  leave ! 
If  I  wanted  to  go  away,  they  would  all  combine 
against  me,  say  I  perjured  myself,  and  then  I 
should  be  humble  and  say  nothing  —  OK,  it  would 
be  horrible  !     Save  me  from  that,  Robert ! 

Robert.  I  am  already  sorry  I  made  you  my 
nurse !  I  can't  promise  you  your  liberty  after  you 
are  through  with  me !  I'll  put  it  in  my  will  that 
you  shall  live  where  you  like,  and  I'll  tell  Claire 
about  it. 

Helene  [anxiously].  Why  speak  to  her? 
She  will  never  agree  with  you !  She  will  only  op- 
pose you  and  make  you  worse !  Only  promise  to 
put  that  in  your  will:  that  will  be  enough. 

Robert.  Claire  is  not  used  to  my  doing  things 
without  consulting  her;  I  couldn't  consent  to 
separating  you  from  the  family  without  speak- 
ing to  her  and  telling  her  my  reasons  for  doing 
so.      Don't  worry,  she  may  disagree  with  me  as 

52 


THE  FOSSILS 


much  as  she  pleases,  I  shall  not  give  in:  you  have 
my  word  for  it! 

[^Enter  Claire.  She  has  been  out-doors,  and 
wears  a  zvalking-siiit;  under  her  arm  is  a 
card-board  /;oa\] 

Clairp:  [taking  off  her  gloves  and  hat].  The 
sun  is  blinding.  I  went  to  the  customs  office  to 
sketch  the  reef,  but  the  sea  was  a  perfect  blaze! 
I  could  hardly  see  a  thing! 

Helene.  What  do  you  find  so  interesting 
about  the  reef?  Haven't  you  already  three  draw- 
ings of  it  in  your  album? 

Claire.  That  stone  pinnacle  which  seems  to 
totter  when  the  waves  break  over  it  fascinates  me  ! 
It's  like  a  fisherman  standing  in  the  water. 

Robert.  Or  a  shepherd  guarding  his  sheep. 
—  Look,  the  flock  is  jumping  about  now ! 

Claire  [smiling].  Flock?!  How  common 
that  word  would  have  sounded  over  there  while 
I  was  sketching!  —  I  imagined — !  That  boil- 
ing tide  —  why,  even  in  the  calmest  weather  it 
seems  as  if  there  were  creatures  beneath  it  forc- 
ing it  up,  in  order  to  rise  up  to  the  sun  —  Sirens, 
maybe,  who  regret  the  times  when  they  danced 
and  gamboled  on  the  beach !  I'm  sure  they  used 
to  live  around  my  rock,  those  divine  cruel  crea- 
tures ! 

Robert  [laughing'].  Divine?  Why?  Because 
they  brought  poor  unfortunate  sailors  and  cabin- 
boys  to  their  doom? 

Claire.  I'm  afraid  so!  Yet  I  think  they 
weren't  so  dangerous  as  they  are  said  to  be ! 
You  remember  once  how  a  certain  warrior  who 
was  on  a  quest  for  some  Golden  Fleece  or  other, 

53 


FOUR  PLAYS 


allowed  himself  to  be  charmed  by  their  song  — 
and  did  they  make  a  meal  of  him?  Of  course 
not!  They  filled  him  full  of  good  counsels,  and 
conducted  him  to  the  island  where  he  found  the 
treasure  he  was  looking  for.  Another  time, 
among  a  number  of  shipwrecked  wretches,  was  an 
old  man  who  had  embarked  to  go  and  preach 
the  gospel  of  Christ  Crucified  to  the  savages; 
in  the  very  teeth  of  the  cannibal  goddesses,  he 
■made  public  profession  of  his  faith,  and  over- 
came terrible  opposition  in  the  midst  of  the 
storm  —  the  revelers  ate  no  more  that  night ! 
The  shining  bodies  and  tresses  of  the  Sirens, 
green  with  seaweed,  triumphantly  escorted  the 
missionary  to  the  shore  whence  he  was  going  to 
drive  the  idol;  then  they  —  the  Sirens  —  idols 
themselves,  plunged  back  into  the  deep  and  ap- 
peared no  more. 

Robert.  What  imagination!  That  must  be 
champagne  foam  around  your  reef!  The  sea  is 
positively  going  to  your  head ! 

Claire.  Make  fun  of  me,  that's  right!  If 
the  sea  makes  me  romantic,  what  do  the  forests 
do  to  you?  When  you  come  back  to  Chante- 
melle  after  a  long  trip,  the  first  thing  you  do  is 
run  to  the  woods,  all  alone,  dressed  like  a  com- 
mon thief, —  and  at  night  to  hear  you  tell  what 
you  found  by  all  your  dear  old  hedges  — ! 

Robert.  Oh,  the  woods  of  Chantemellel 
How  often  have  I  wandered  about  them!  I've 
never  been  really  happy  away  from  them !  But 
that  doesn't  prevent  my  loving  the  sea !  The 
woods  and  the  sea  have  a  great  attraction  for 
me.      I  have  always  liked  to  hunt,  and  it  wasn't 

54 


THE  FOSSILS 


the  mere  killing  of  animals  that  I  enjoyed:  there 
was  something  else.  It  was  the  thick  under- 
brush, the  unknown!  I  used  to  listen,  tingling 
with  joy,  to  the  moaning  of  the  wind,  at  first  far- 
off,  then  rushing  on,  wave  after  wave  —  grandly, 
mysteriously  —  and  all  at  once,  the  tops  of  the 
birches  would  begin  to  wave  high  over  my  head, 
and  the  pines  and  saplings  would  sway,  and  I  was 
in  the  midst  of  the  whirlwind!  Then  to  hear  the 
boars  cracking  the  dry  sticks,  breaking  through 
hedges  —  you'd  think  they  were  the  fauns  of  old 
Greece !  Then  the  boar  comes  out  into  the  open- 
ing, a  big  black  thing,  hair  bristling,  tail  twisted 
up  in  a  knot!  There  is  your  faun!  And  the 
light  tread  of  the  wolves  over  the  dead  leaves!  — 
Head  lowered,  ears  alert,  digging  round  some 
briar  —  he  looks  up,  and  then  vanishes  Heaven 
knows  where.  And  then  the  lantern  reflections 
of  the  foxes  over  the  snow!  Oh,  to  think  of  all 
that  now ! 

Helene  [seated  a  little  distance  from  him, 
and  trying  to  attract  attention  to  herself^.  Yes, 
you  prefer  the  forests  to  the  sea! 

Robert.  I  like  both,  but  not  in  the  same  way. 
The  aristocrat  in  me  loves  those  old  trees,  as 
old  as  we  are,  that  spread  their  protecting  arms 
over  the  multitudes.  Are  we  not  the  brothers 
of  the  pines  and  giant  hemlocks?  I  never  wan- 
der about  among  them  without  assuming  their 
splendid  attitude  of  arrogance.  I  soar  high  above 
the  fields,  drink  in  the  light  and  the  pure  air  and 
proudly  scatter  acorns  and  pine-nuts  to  the  fam- 
ished countryside, —  Here  by  the  sea  another  be- 
ing awakes  within  me ;  the  waves  come  in  never- 

55 


FOUR  PLAYS 


ending  procession  and  break,  on  the  beach,  each 
decked  out  in  diamonds  by  the  sun  —  small  in 
calm  weather,  gigantic  in  the  storm.  Then  I  say 
to  myself,  "  Here  is  a  far  different  image  of  man- 
kind from  what  I  get  in  the  forests."  The 
uniformity  of  those  waves,  bearing  forever  the 
burden  of  the  fleets  of  the  world,  those  waves  that 
are  doomed  to  eternal  unrest  —  there  is  some- 
thing monotonous  in  all  that,  too  monotonous  for 
my  forester's  instinct!  Then  I  wonder  whether 
men  can  ever  make  their  way  through  life  like 
the  waves,  without  jostling,  wrangling,  and  hurt- 
ing one  another.  Then  1  am  seized  with  fear: 
I  am  afraid  that  the  wave  of  humanity,  if  all  men 
are  made  equal,  like  the  waves  of  the  sea,  will 
continue  to  rise  up  and  up,  mysteriously  attracted 
from  above !  —  Here  I  am,  part  forester,  part 
man  of  the  sea  —  the  trees  and  the  hedges  and  the 
waves ! 

Claire.  Oh,  Robert,  how  truly  we  are 
brother  and  sister!  From  birth  we  have  been 
buried  in  the  old  chateau,  discouraged  because  we 
had  nothing  to  do,  looking  to  the  winds  and  the 
woods,  the  waves  and  the  clouds  to  sing  us  the  song 
of  life.  I  never  read  much,  but  I  have  heard  it 
said  that  everything  nowadays  is  bad;  yet  these 
forces  in  nature  paint  for  me  the  life  of  the  past. 
You,  you  question  them  for  the  future  —  which  of 
us  is  right? 

Robi:rt  [^facing  Claire^.  I !  To  speak  of  the 
future  and  to  die  to-morrow  is  futile  enough; 
but  I  have  a  son,  and  I  live  in  agony  wondering 
what  his  destiny  will  be.  Poor  little  one,  1  fear 
I  have  given  him  a  mournful  heritage  in  taking 

56 


THE  FOSSILS 


him  into  this  family !  Will  he  hav^e  a  place  of 
his  own  to  breathe  in  and  think,  as  I  never  had? 
No,  I  never  had  that,  even  at  Chantemelle !  I 
have  loved  you  all,  but  I  was  never  able  to  talk 
with  you  without  getting  into  a  dispute  —  oh,  that 
eternal  wrangling!  [Smiling. '\  I  became  a  So- 
cialist to  spite  Father,  a  Freethinker  to  spite 
Mother,  a  Republican  to  spite  you  —  and  the 
whole  thing  ended  in  recriminations !  When  I 
went  to  Paris  to  complete  my  studies,  I  was  again 
wofully  out  of  place:  nearly  all  my  fellow-students 
held  radically  different  views  from  ours.  /  ought 
to  have  been  able  to  get  along  with  them  —  but 
I  couldn't!  I  was  more  dogmatic  with  them  than 
Father  is  with  us,  more  religious  than  Mother, 
more  Royalist  than  you.  There  are  declasses  of 
high  rank,  as  well  as  of  low  —  I  am  one  of  the 
former.  I  am  Intellectually  in  sympathy  with  the 
present  generation,  but  my  heart  is  with  the  past! 
Wherever  I  go,  half  of  me  is  an  exile.  I  must 
save  my  son  from  this  torture ! 

Claire.  Of  course  you  must!  He  w^ill  never 
be  like  you,  who  never  dared  be  yourself  except 
alone  with  your  books,  who  were  afraid  that  the 
living  might  perceive  in  you  a  radical,  a  revolu- 
tionist against  the  family!  He  will  keep  up  with 
his  times, —  I  am  even  willing  to  bury  my  dislikes 
and  become  modern  in  order  to  be  with  him  my- 
self. But  you  will  not  object,  will  you,  to  my 
keeping  my  old  pride  deep  down  in  my  heart?  I 
shall  explain  to  him  later  all  your  ideas  about  the 
nobility:  the  source  of  true  chivalry! 

Robert.  In  the  joy  of  being  a  father,  I  had 
hoped    for   that,    and    I    finally   brought   you    to 

57 


FOUR  PLAYS 


think  as  I  did.  But  these  last  few  days  I  have 
been  discouraged  —  I  have  to  come  down  to  earth 
again!  It  may  be  that  my  sickness  makes  me  be- 
lieve I  foresee  the  downfall  of  all  our  family, 
while  only  /  am  dying.  No  matter!  I'm  only 
too  glad  not  to  have  to  explain  to  my  son  all  the 
doubts  that  have  arisen  in  me:  that  awful  past 
that  seems  like  a  drag  on  our  future !  I  confide 
him  to  you,  who  are  tall  and  dignified  like  the 
pines,  healthy  and  clear-seeing!  My  son  will 
have  only  to  look  about  him  to  find  the  finest  ex- 
amples of  honor  and  bigness  of  spirit:  Father  is 
loyalty  and  probity  incarnate,  and  you  would  never 
tell  a  lie  even  to  save  your  life! 

Claire  [agitated].  You  may  be  sure  of  me: 
I  shall  look  after  your  son  so  well  that  not  the 
shadow  of  a  base  thought  can  reach  him. 

Helene  [goes  to  Robert,  takes  him  aside, 
and  speaks  to  him.]  Oh,  Robert!  To  confide 
our  son  to  the  family  before  me,  after  your 
promise!      I  thought  I  could  trust  you,  Robert! 

Robert  [aside  to  Helene].  Oh,  I'm  terribly 
sorry !  Forgive  me,  Helene !  You  have  my 
word,  and  you  may  depend  upon  it  more  than 
ever! 

Helene  [shrugging  her  shoulders,  as  she  goes 
to  the  zvindow].  There,  I  hear  him  crying! 
[Looking  out  the  windozv.]  Oh,  that  nurse!  — 
Talk  ahead  about  your  grand  ideas,  Mama  is 
going  to  look  after  baby! 

[She  takes  a  garden-hat  from  the  rack  and  goes 
out.] 

Robert  [going  to  Claire].  Claire,  Claire, 
you   speak   about   little   Henri    as   if   he   had   no 

58 


THE  FOSSILS 


mother!  There,  you  see,  she's  the  one  who  really 
takes  care  of  him ! 

Claire  [s7}iilwg'\.  Robert,  you  are  to  blame! 
You  tell  us  what  you  want  done  with  the  boy,  and 
you  always  speak  to  me  about  it  in  his  mother's 
presence. 

Robert.  I  didn't  mean  to  do  that.  I  was 
speaking  to  you  both.  But  you  are  not  kind  to 
Helene.  What's  the  matter?  Helene  has  been 
telling  me  that  after  I'm  gone  It  will  be  impos- 
sible for  her  to  live  with  you.  She  means  to  set- 
tle where  she  will  not  be  humiliated  later  on  in 
the  presence  of  her  son. 

Claire  [astonished].  She  wants  to  take  the 
child  away?  Did  she  say  that?  What  did  you 
say? 

Robert.  I'm  sorry,  but  I  told  her  she  was 
right.  In  my  will,  I  shall  make  provision  for  her 
to  live  independently. 

Claire  [at  her  zvits'  end].  Robert,  don't  do 
that! 

Robert.     I  promised  her. 

Claire.     Don't  do  it! 

Robert.  Claire,  I  am  as  sorry  as  you  are  to 
have  the  child  taken  from  the  hereditary  home; 
there  are  certain  sacred  things  I  should  have  liked 
him  to  grow  up  to  feel;  but  you  can't  ex- 
pect a  woman  of  Hclene's  age  to  remain  buried 
alive  for  the  rest  of  her  life!  1  he  moment  she 
suffers  from  your  contact,  and  says  she  does,  I 
want  her  to  be  left  free.  Won't  she  be  free  any- 
way? I  shall  ask  her,  beg  her,  to  stay  at  Chante- 
melle,  but  who  can  force  her  against  her  wishes? 
In  a  year's  time,  she  might  leave  you,  hating  and 

59 


FOUR  PLAYS 


despising  you  all  —  all  you  have  to  do  is  make 
her   wish  to   be   with  you,   by  love,   by  affection. 

Claire.  Whatever  you  do,  leave  us  the  child! 
Listen  to  me:  I  tell  you,  this  is  a  matter  of  the 
gravest  importance ! 

Robert.  Let  you  have  the  child?!  I  once 
asked  you  to  take  him,  and  you  refused;  now  / 
refuse!  The  child  belongs  to  his  mother,  and  if 
Helene  consents  to  abandon  him,  then  I  should  be 
the  first  —  Why  — ! 

Claire.  To  have  a  Duke  of  Chantemelle 
educated  by  Helene  Vatrin  —  to  have  him  grow 
up  with  her  ideas,  out  of  sympathy  with  our  be- 
liefs, our  faith?!  Would  you  allow  that?  To 
think  that  a  creature  like  Helene  could  so  deceive 
you — !  Now  I  see  what  you  meant  when  you 
spoke  about  the  uniformity  of  the  waves  and  the 
vision  of  a  new  mankind!  Her  ideas,  the  ideas 
of  a  woman  of  the  common  people  have  taken 
root  in  you !  You  try  to  make  those  ideas  fit  in 
with  your  own,  you  are  blinded  because  they  please 
you  —  you  are  infected  with  them !  Robert, 
come  to  yourself!  Before  your  marriage,  you 
swore  to  me  that  if  Helene  were  not  the  mother 
of  your  child,  you  would  not  marry  her!  Now 
you  are  sacrificing  your  son  to  her ! 

Robert.  Very  well,  admit  that  I  am;  you 
forget  one  thing:  our  parents  are  getting  old. 
Llelene  will  of  necessity  be  the  only  one  left  to 
take  care  of  her  son !      There's  the  sacrifice ! 

Claire.  I  am  young,  and  I  am  stronger  than 
Helene!  I  offer  my  whole  life,  Robert,  for  your 
son. 

60 


THE  FOSSILS 


Robert  [^struggling  to  dominate  his  emotion']. 
Impossible ! 

Claire.  Then  why  did  you  speak  to  me,  and 
me  alone, —  not  long  ago, —  when  you  were  tell- 
ing how  the  future  Duke  de  Chantemelle  ought 
to  be  educated?  Wasn't  I  the  only  one  who  un- 
derstood? 

Robert.     Stop  it! 

Claire.  Then  in  your  opinion  Helene  is  my 
equal? 

Robert.  Claire,  you  are  prejudiced  against 
Helene;  and  you  have  a  right  to  judge:  your  life 
has  been  spotless.  But  you  must  look  at  things 
from  a  different  point  of  view.  You  are  no 
longer  a  little  girl.  Remember,  a  w^oman  may 
make  a  slip  and  yet  remain  worthy  of  respect: 
Helene  is  such  a  woman. 

Claire.     Don't  leave  your  son  with  her! 

Robert.     Oh  —  !     Well? 

Claire.  Remember,  Robert,  remember,  Ma- 
demoiselle Vatrin  was  dismissed  from  Chante- 
melle for  misbehavior  — 

Robert.     She  loved  me! 

Claire  [driven  to  despair].  Loved  —  every- 
body!! 

[Enter  the  Duke,  from  one  of  the  rooms  at  the 
side.] 

Duke.  Claire,  are  you  mad?  You  shout  — ! 
I  heard  you  from  the  smoking-room.  You  know 
what  the  doctors  say?     You,  too,  Robert? 

Claire.  We  are  facing  a  greater  danger  than 
that!  Father,  I  was  willing,  as  you  were,  for 
Robert  to  marry  —  you  know  why, —  you  know 

6i 


FOUR  PLAYS 


what  it  cost  me !  That  was  for  the  sake  of  the 
family,  for  the  future,  for  Henri:  the  hope  of  us 
all.  Well,  that's  over  now,  we  have  only  to  look 
at  the  wreckage  —  and  regret  what  we  have  done. 
Why  didn't  we  think  of  one  simple  thing,  that 
Henri  before  belonging  to  us  belongs  to  his 
mother?  And  last  of  all,  here  is  Robert  who  is 
going  to  make  provision  in  his  will  for  Helene  to 
leave  us  and  take  away  her  child ! 

Duke  [to  Robert].     Is  this  true? 

Robert.     Yes. 

Duke.     Don't  do  it! 

Robert.     It  is  my  right. 

Duke.     It  is!     But  don't  do  it! 

Robert.     Give  me  a  reason. 

Duke.     A  thousand,  if  you  like. 

Claire  [to  the  Duke].  I  have  told  him  —  all 
I  could  tell  him ! 

Duke.  There  are  others!  Helene's  origin, 
for  instance  —  of  course,  we  don't  wish  to  re- 
proach her  — !  Things  are  done  in  these  days 
that  make  the  blood  run  cold!  Even  if  ours  were 
the  most  obscure  of  names,  I  should  still  say, 
save  our  honor:  don't  leave  it  in  the  hands  of  that 
woman ! 

Robert.  I  refuse  to  allow  you  to  insult 
Helene ! 

Duke  [rising  to  his  full  hc'ujht].  You  re- 
fuse ? ! 

Robert  [making  a  great  effort].  I  am  weak, 
but  you  cannot  bend  me.  If  you  say  a  single  in- 
sulting word  against  her,  I'll  leave  the  house  and 
take  her  with  me ! 

Duke.  She  is  now  out  there  in  the  garden; 
62 


THE  FOSSILS 


let  her  come  in  and  talk  to  me,  face  to  face,  about 
her  rights  !     Let  her  dare  !     Let  her  — ! 

Claire.     She  will  be  a  little  less  proud  then ! 

Robert.  She  will  come  here,  to  pack  the 
trunks  and  follow  me ! 

Duke.  I  shall  keep  the  child,  in  spite  of  his 
mother. 

Robert.     He  is  mine! 

Duke.     Ours ! 

Robert.     Mine! 

Duke  [menacingl.     Ours! 

Claire  [frightened].     Father !     Listen  to  me  ! 

Duke  [thrusting  Claire  aside].  You  go  away! 
This  is  between  us  ! 

Claire.     Father! 

Duke.     Go! 

[He  takes  Claire  by  the  shoulders,  and 
thrusts  her  out  of  the  room.  She  remains 
behind  the  door,  however,  which  is  not  quite 
closed.] 

Duke  [goes  quickly  to  Robert,  overcome  with 
rage].  Now!  She  was  mine  before  she  was 
yours!  I  committed  the  crime  of  letting  you 
marry  her  in  order  that  the  family  might  not  die 
out  with  you !  I  don't  intend  to  let  you  take 
from  us  the  child  we  have  all  paid  so  dearly  for! 
He  belongs  to  the  family;  I  forbid  you  to  lay 
hands  on  him!  There!  I  think  that  is  all! 
[Suddenly  calm  and  dignified.]  Now,  if  you 
think  I  should  die,  I  am  ready. 

Robert  [looks  his  father  in  the  eyes  for  a  long 
time,  then  walks  zvith  unsteady  steps  toward  the 
door.  As  he  is  about  to  leave,  he  summons  up 
all  his  reserve  strength].     One  of  us  has  to  die! 

63 


FOUR  PLAYS 


\^He   goes   out,    tottering.      Claire   is   seen   he- 
hind    the    door;    she    receives    hiin    in    her 
arms.] 
Duke    [going    to    the    window   and    calling]. 
Helene,  come  here ! 

Helene     [outside].     Why?     It's     so     lovely 
outdoors. 

Duke   [stamping  on  the  floor].     Come  here! 
[In  a  voice  of  thunder.]     I  tell  you,  come  here ! 
[He  returns   to   the  center  of  the  room,   and 
stands  waiting,  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  door. 
Enter  Hclhie;  the  moment  she  sees  the  ex- 
pression on  the  Dukes  face,  she  is  terror- 
stricken.] 
Duke    [bruskly].     You    have    tried    to    steal 
our  child!  —  You  bear  one  of  the  most  honorable 
names  in  France,  you   are  rich  and  respected  — 
you  ought  to  be  satisfied.     You  have  asked  for 
more,  and  you  will  now  receive  justice.      I  have 
told  everything  to  Robert. 

Helene  [sobbing].  My  God! 
Duke.  My  words  have  sacrificed  a  life: 
either  Robert's  or  mine  —  I  don't  know  which. 
I  told  Robert  I  was  willing  to  die  —  he  said  that 
one  of  us  must,  and  he  is  right.  He  is  now  try- 
ing to  find  a  way  that  will  avoid  all  scandal,  and 
he  will  succeed,  I  know  he  will ! 

[Enter  Claire.      The  Duke  questions  her  zvith 

a  look.] 
Claire.     He  says  nothing!     I  wanted  to  talk 
with    him  —  he    gave    me    such    a    look  — !      I 
didn't   dare    stay    with    him!      He   knows   that    I 
knew  everything  — ! 

Duke.     Repeat   it  to   him,   word   for  word; 
64 


THE  FOSSILS 


don't  leave  him !  The  only  honor  in  my  crime 
is  that  you,  the  soul  of  purity,  are  my  accom- 
plice! Go  and  tell  him:  he  must  not  have  the 
shadow  of  a  doubt! 

[Enter  the  Duchess. 1 

Duchess.  What  has  happened?  Robert  is 
terribly  changed !  I  found  him  nearly  dead  in  a 
chair!  When  he  saw  me,  he  got  up  and  told  me 
he  was  leaving  for  Chantemelle  to-night.  I 
couldn't  argue  with  him ! 

Claire  [going  to  the  Duke,  and  looking  him 
straight  in  the  face].  That  will  kill  him  I  It 
was  twenty  degrees  below  zero  there  yesterday! 

Duchess.  I  told  him,  but  he  wouldn't  listen. 
I  told  him  I  would  find  Helene  for  him,  and  his 
face  was  — !  Now  I  remember,  the  moment  I 
pronounced  Helene's  name,  he  turned  white  as 
snow!  We  can't  let  him  go  away  like  that! 
Helene,  why  aren't  you  with  him  now? 

Helene  [in  terror].     No,  no,  not  now!     No! 

Duchess.  Have  you  and  Robert — ?  Only 
this  morning  you  were  talking  together  —  What's 
the  matter? 

[Helene  gives  a  vague  gesture.] 

Duke.  Helene  had  better  stay  here !  You 
see  she  is  very  nervous.  She's  not  well!  She 
can't  go  to  him  ! ! 

Duchess  [to  the  Duke].  Then  you  speak  to 
Robert,  you  have  so  much  influence  with  him  ! 

DvKE  [hesitating].  I?  I  can't  go !  [Glanc- 
ing at  Claire  significantly].  Claire,  you  ought  to 
speak  to  him. 

Duchess.  But  why  not  you,  Henri?  Why, 
you  are  nearly  as  pale  as  Helene !     Are  you  afraid 

6S 


FOUR  PLAYS 


of  something?     You,  too,  Claire!      Your  face  is 
changed ! 

Claire.  There's  nothing  strange,  Mother! 
I  am  afraid  for  Robert! 

Duchess.  Why  do  you  look  at  your  father 
that  way?  What's  the  matter?  You  are  hid- 
ing something  from  me,  all  of  you !  There  is 
some  secret  —  what  is  it?  Am  T  the  only  one  in 
the  house  not  to  know?  Hclcne,  tell  me! 
[Ht'lt'ue  hides  her  face  in  her  hands,  sobbing,  as 
the  Duchess  looks  at  licr  in  silence.^  Helene,  this 
is  not  the  first  time  I  have  asked  you  a  question  — 
the  last  time  you  behaved  as  you  do  now  — .  Cry, 
cry  now,  if  you  like,  but  you  are  going  to  tell  me ! 

Duke.     Never  mind  her,  I'll  answer  for  her! 

Claire  [terrified].     Let  me  tell  her! 

Duchess.  You,  Claire?  Last  summer  you 
begged  me  to  send  her  away  from  Chantemelle; 
you  gave  me  no  reasons,  and  I  asked  for  none. 
We  were  face  to  face,  both  of  us  quivering  with 
fear.  Your  eyes  spoke  —  spoke  and  told  me  — 
what  Robert  has  just  found  out !  It's  too  hor- 
rible !  Such  shame  in  our  house !  And  she  has 
married  our  son!  And  you,  Claire,  knew  all  the 
time!  And  you  never  said  a  word!  Oh,  I  don't 
know  what  I  — !     And  you  knew  — ! 

Claire.  Mother,  since  I've  known  this  se- 
cret, I  haven't  had  a  moment's  peace  of  mind  —  I 
have  sacrificed  all  to  something  that  is  greater  than 
we  are  — 

Duchess.  Nothing  is  more  sacred  than  an 
oath  —  you  have  no  sense  of  honor  if  you  be- 
lieve otherwise ! 

Claire.      I  was  thinking  only  of  the  child. 
66 


THE  FOSSILS 


Duchess.  The  child!  Ha!  The  poorest 
of  peasants  cries  when  he  loses  his  son,  and  when 
Robert  dies  you  won't  think  of  him  —  his  son  to 
you  is  only  a  title!  If  the  title  is  saved,  you  are 
happy !  The  child  will  live  in  glory  and  honor, 
no  matter  what  infamies  are  committed  to  save 
the  title!     And  all  for  a  poor  little  bastard  — 

Duke.  Don't  insult  the  child!  Robert  will 
not  allow  it ! 

Duchess.  Robert  will  not  — !  [She  breaks 
out  into  tears.~\  Your  own  son,  killed  by  you  — 
let  him  decide  —  don't  ask  anything  of  me  — 

[Enter  Robert,  his  face  deadly  pale.  He  can 
hardly  walk;  but  he  shows  great  strength  in 
his  efforts.  As  soon  as  she  sees  him,  the 
Duchess  assumes  an  attitude  of  outward 
calm.  Claire  goes  to  him  at  once,  and  helps 
him  to  walk.~\ 

Robert.  Let  us  forget  ourselves  for  the  time 
being,  and  save  little  Henri:  he  is  the  family, 
think  of  him! 

Duchess.  We'll  do  anything,  only  stay  with 
us ! 

Robert.  I  am  going  to  the  Ardennes  this 
evening  —  I  have  presentiments,  and  I  am  never 
mistaken  about  them:  this  time,  I  feel  that  death 
is  not  far  away,  and  when  it  comes  I  want  to  be 
there,  with  my  memories  of  the  past:  not  only  of 
my  youth,  but  of  all  our  glorious  past !  I  feel 
I  have  lived  for  centuries  and  centuries !  The 
trip  will  doubtless  cut  short  my  life  by  a  few  days, 
but  I  shall  at  least  have  shown  you  what  devotion 
to  an  ideal  is ! 

Duke.     An  ideal? 

67 


FOUR  PLAYS 


Robert.  Yours,  ours:  the  honor  of  our  name. 
Helene  and  Claire  and  I  are  going.  You  may 
stay  here  with  Mother  and  the  httle  one,  if  you 
like;  you  may  bring  little  Henri  back  with  you  to 
Chantemelle  when  the  bad  weather  is  over. 

Claire.  I  am  going  with  Robert.  I  —  I  ad- 
mire him  —  so  much!  [To  Hclhic.^  Come 
Helene,  we  have  to  get  ready,  and  help  Robert  — 
Come  — 

[Helene  follows  Claire  out  of  the  room,  ivalking 
as  if  she  were  in  a  dream.] 

Duke  [riveted  to  the  floor].  Robert,  I  have 
abdicated!  You  are  the  head  of  the  family! 
Command,  they  will  all  obey  you  !  —  Good-by  !  — 

[He  picks  up  his  hat  and  overcoat,  and  goes  out 
to  the  beach.  The  Duchess  throws  herself 
into  Robert's  arms,  convulsed  with  sobs.] 


[Curtain.] 


68 


ACT  IV 

[The  same  scene  as  in  the  first  two  acts.  It 
is  night.  The  door  upstage  to  the  left  ^  is 
open;  the  passage  formed  by  this  door  is  trans- 
formed into  a  chapel,  brightly  lighted  by 
candles  where  the  body  of  Robert  is  exposed 
upon  a  bier. 

The  Duchess  and  Claire  are  kneeling  in 
prayer  before  the  bier.  About  them  are  numer- 
ous peasants,  men  and  women,  who  from  time 
to  time  cast  a  glance  at  the  body  and  pray. 

Down-stage  to  the  left  sits  the  Duke,  his  arms 
resting  on  the  table,  his  face  buried  in  his  hands. 
Behind  him,  near  the  principal  entrance  to  the 
room,  stands  a  servant  in  livery,  who  conducts 
the  peasants  back  and  forth  during  the  first  part 
of  the  act. —  The  peasants  go  first  to  the  bier, 
say  a  "  Pater,"  then  cross  themselves  and  go 
out.     Some  sprinkle  holy  water  on  the  body. 

For  about  a  minute  after  the  curtain  rises, 
no  one  speaks. —  The  visitors  enter,  then  bow 
ceremoniously  to  the  Duke,  who  rarely  raises 
his  eyes. 

A  large  Farmer,  as  he  leaves  the  bed,  ap- 
proaches the  Duke  and  offers  his  condolence. 

The  Farmer  is  dressed  in  his  best  clothes.] 

1  When  the  play  was  produced  at  the  Theatre  Libre,  the  bier 
was  placed  up-stage,  center,  the  head  of  the  body  touching  the 
back  wall,   the   feet  pointing  toward  the  footlights. —  Tr. 

69 


FOUR  PLAYS 


The  Farmer.  Ah,  Monsieur  le  due,  it's  very 
sad!  Such  a  young  man!  And  so  strong!  See 
him  galloping  away  all  winter  with  his  dogs!  — 
Maybe  he  v.ore  himself  out  doing  that?  Why, 
my  wife  was  telling  me  only  this  morning,  he 
wasn't  afraid  of  anything,  not  he!  And  last 
Sunday,  sick  as  he  was,  we  saw  him  at  High  Mass 

—  and  then  he  went  to  the  cemetery  to  see  the  old 
graves  of  his  ancestors;  and  he  didn't  wear  a  hat 

—  he  was  there  most  a  quarter  of  an  hour! 
There  was  no  sense  in  that!  He  must  've  done  it 
on  purpose  — 

Duke.     This  Is  a  terrible  blow  for  me,  Renaud 

—  /  ought  to  have  been  the  first  to  go! 

The  FARNn:R.  Oh,  Monsieur  le  due  is  like  a 
rock  yet!  —  Monsieur  Robert  used  to  come 
around  to  the  farm  often  —  he  liked  us  farmers, 
and  the  animals  too !  He'd  've  been  a  fine  master 
to  us  later  on ! 

Duke.  We  shall  do  our  best  to  have  his  son 
resemble  him;  he  must  make  the  same  friends  for 
Chantemelle  as  his  father  did! 

[The  Duke  shakes  hands  ivith  the  Fanner,  ivho 

goes  out. 
After   the   peasants   cease   coming   in,    enter   a 
Neighbor.     He  zvears  a  fur  rap  and  carries 
a  heavy  cane;  his  thick  boots  and  leather  leg- 
gings proclaim  him  a  hunter.     His  trousers 
and  coat  are  of  black  cloth.      The  servant 
points  out  the  Duke  to  him.^ 
The   Neighbor    [going   to   the   Duke].     My 
dear  friend!      [They  shake  hands  cordially.]      I 
just  heard  the  sad  news  this  noon.      Fd  gone  out 
early  in  the  morning  shooting  wild  geese  —  when 

70 


THE  FOSSILS 


I  got  back  for  lunch  they  told  me. —  So  you  didn't 
arrive  soon  enough? 

Duke,     We  arrived  just  an  hour  ago. 

The  Neighbor.  It  was  over  last  night,  wasn't 
it? 

Duke.  We  received  the  telegram  at  four  in 
the  afternoon. 

The  Neighbor.  Just  in  time  to  catch  the 
train? 

Duke.     Yes! 

The  Neighbor  [tiirmng  toward  the  body]. 
He's  there!  Poor  Robert!  I'll  go  and  see  him 
for  the  last  time !  I  don't  like  to  disturb  the 
ladies;  how  are  they? 

Duke.     Tired  —  utterly  worn  out  — 

The  Neighbor.  Mademoiselle  Claire  was 
here,  wasn't  she? 

Duke.  Yes  —  she  was  admirable  —  my 
daughter-in-law  was  here,  too. 

The  Neighbor.  If  I  can  be  of  any  service, 
I—? 

\_The  Duke  bows  his  head  sadly,  shakes  hands 
again  with  the  Neighbor,  who  goes  toward 
the  body.  The  Duke  accompanies  him. 
The  Duke  is  intercepted  by  a  Nun  who  enters 
through  the  door,  down-stage  to  the  left. 
She  ivas  Robert's  nurse  during  his  last  ill- 
ness.] 

The  Nun.  Monsieur  le  due,  they  tell  me  the 
village  blacksmith  is  waiting  to  close  the  coffin. 

Duke.  We've  been  here  hardly  an  hour! 
The  Duchess  wants  to  keep  her  son  a  little  longer! 
Must  he  — ? 

The  Nun.     Yes! 

71 


FOUR  PLAYS 


Duke.  Try  to  keep  the  strangers  out  of  the 
way;  I  don't  want  any  one  by  while  his  mother  is 
with  him !  You  may  bring  the  men  in  a  few  mo- 
ments —  afterward ! 

[  The  Duke  goes  hack  to  his  place.      The  Nun 
tells  the  servant  to  admit  uo  one  else,  then 
goes  to  Claire  and  zvhispers  something  to  her, 
while    the   servant   sends    the    peasants    out. 
The  Neighbor  also  leaves  the  room,  then  the 
Nun.      The  Duchess  remains  at  the  foot  of 
the    bier,    oblivious    of    ichat    is    happening. 
Claire  goes  to  her  father,  and  speaks  zcith 
him  in  an  undertone.] 
Clairi:.      Father,  they  are  going  to  close  Rob- 
ert's coffin  — !      [Shozving  him  a  sheet  of  paper 
folded  betzvcen   the  leaves   of  her  prayer-book.'] 
I  want  to  read  his  will  before  us  all,  while  he  is 
still  with  us.     Then  I  shall  tell  you  about  his  last 
hours :  not  the  agony,  you  know  about  that,  but 
his  last  wishes.      They  are  worthy  of  him  ! 

Duke.  You  represent  your  brother:  what  you 
wish  shall  be  done. 

Claire.  Thank  you.  I  am  going  to  call 
Helene  — 

\_She  speaks  a  few  words  to  the  servant,  who 

goes    out.     At   the   same   time   the   Duchess 

rises,  her  face  wet  with  tears,  and  joins  her 

husband.      Claire  comes  to  them.] 

Duchess     [looking     toward    the    bier].      He 

hasn't  changed!      He  is  sleeping! 

Claire.  He  is !  He  closed  his  eyes  quietly 
without  the  least  struggle.  His  last  thought  was 
the  honor  of  the  family  — 

Duchess.     Was  Helene  there? 
72 


THE  FOSSILS 


Claire.      I  called  her  toward  the  last. 

Duchess.      Did  he  recognize  her? 

Claire.     He  asked  for  her. 

Duchess.  Then  she  didn't  go  near  him  all 
that  week  while  he  was  sick? 

Claire.  Oh,  yes,  she  was  often  with  him;  we 
had  no  reason  to  send  her  away.  Robert  treated 
her  exactly  as  he  had  always  done  —  there  was 
only  one  change  in  him :  he  had  no  desire  to  live  — 

Duchess  [sobbintj/].  His  prayer  was  an- 
swered ! 

Claire.  Courage,  Mother!  You  will  need 
a  great  deal  to-day!  I  have  sent  for  Helene:  I 
want  you  all  to  hear  Robert's  last  wishes  — 

[The  Duchess  again  kneels  by  the  bier.^ 

Duke.  Your  mother  can't  stand  this  —  how 
long  will  she  be  like  that? 

Claire.  If  she  can  only  bear  up  until  the 
funeral  is  over ! 

Duke.  How  foolish  we  were,  Claire,  to  think 
that  with  a  secret  like  this  we  could  live  together 
happily!  We  can  stand  the  strain  now,  and  for 
some  time  to  come,  but  —  after  ? 

Claire.  Then  Mother  will  not  suffer  so! 
She  loves  you  too  much,  she  understands  her  re- 
ligion too  well  to  leave  you. 

Duke.     But  when  I  have  to  face  Helene  — 

Claire.     Helene  will  be  no  obstacle  — 

Duke.  Is  she  going  to  leave?  Then  she's 
not  going  to  take  the  child?  I  am  sure  Robert 
will  not  allow  him  to  be  in  unsafe  hands.  But 
if  Helene  goes  away  by  herself,  what  will  people 
think? 

Claire.  Have  no  fear  about  that!  Helene 
73 


FOUR  PLAYS 


will  not  leave  here  alone.  The  martyrdom  you 
think  Mother  will  have  to  suffer  will  be  borne  by 
some  one  else. 

Duke.     You,  Claire? 

Claire  [repressing  the  tears'].  Please  don't 
ask  me !  —  What  1  have  to  look  forward  to  is  too 
terrible  to  think  about.  Robert  himself  will  tell 
you  what  we  are  going  to  do.  When  you  hear 
the  words  from  his  mouth  then  I  shall  tell  you 
what  is  to  become  of  me. 

[Enter  Helcne.     She  stands  in   the  center  of 
the  room.      The  Duke  and  Claire  are  dozvn- 
stage  to  the  right.] 
Claire.     Helene,    my    mother    wishes    to    see 
you  —  there ! 

[Helene   goes    to    the    bier.     She    zvaits    there 

for  the  Duchess,  who  is  still  on  her  knees. 

At    last    the    Duchess    rises,    and    she    and 

Helene  face  each  other.      The  Duchess  holds 

her   hand   out,    with   her   eyes   still   on    the 

body ;  Helene  takes  her  hand  for  a  moment. 

Then   the  Duchess  goes   to    Claire   and  the 

Duke.      They   are  grouped  as  follows:   the 

Duke  leaning  on  the  table  down-stage  to  the 

right;  the  Duchess  seats  herself  to  the  left, 

Helcne    remains    standing    before    the    bier; 

Claire,    standing    in    the    center,    reads    the 

will.  ] 

Claire  [the  will  in  hand].     Here  is  Robert's 

will.     The  beginning  is  like  those  old  wills  of  our 

forefathers  —  I  can  imagine  him  making  a  cross 

for  a  signature!      [Reading.] 

"  In  the  name  of  the  Father  and  the  Son  and 
the    Holy    Spirit,    I,    Robert    Charles-Henri    de 

74 


THE  FOSSILS 


Chantemelle,  about  to  appear  before  God,  ask 
pardon  for  all  the  wrongs  I  have  committed 
against  my  people,  and  do  solemnly  swear  that  I 
bear  in  my  heart  not  the  slightest  resentment 
against  any  one  of  them,  whosoever  he  may  be. 
I  wish  my  father  to  know  that  I  felt  as  deeply 
as  he  at  the  thought  of  the  disappearance  of  our 
family.  He  forgot  that  he  was  a  father  only  to 
remember  that  he  was  a  duke.  He  had  the 
strength  to  crush  certain  sacred  sentiments,  I  to 
forget  vengeance  —  I  thank  God  for  taking  my 
life  at  a  time  when  such  vengeance  became  im- 
possible for  me. 

"  On  my  death,  I  ordain  the  following: 

"  I  humbly  beg  my  father  and  my  mother  to 
continue  their  existence  together  in  the  true  spirit 
of  Christian  humility,  after  I  am  gone.  I  have 
learned  a  valuable  lesson  from  my  mother,  which 
has  greatly  helped  me,  and  taught  me  to  die  in 
peace. 

"  Claire  has  nothing  to  reproach  herself  with 
In  regard  to  me.  When  at  last  she  saw  the  im- 
possibility of  my  surviving  she  fully  realized  her 
responsibility.  How  willing  she  Is  to  expiate  her 
noble  crime  In  trying  to  preserve  the  ancient  glory 
of  our  family ! 

"  I  should  be  guilty  of  grave  indelicacy  were 
I  to  record  here  what  she  has  promised  to  do. 
I  leave  it  to  her  to  explain  In  what  way  she  Is 
willing  to  sacrifice  herself.  Claire  will  be  my 
representative  among  you;  I  place  Helene  and 
her  child  in  Claire's  hands.  Whatever  she  shall 
think  best,  will  be  my  wish. 

"  I  ask  my  parents  to  give  to  Helene  the 
75 


FOUR  PLAYS 


Chateau  des  Ecluses  in  Normandy.  She  promised 
me  to  go  there  and  consecrate  her  life  to  the  educa- 
tion of  her  son.  She  may  be  justly  charged  with 
perjury  if  she  deviates  in  the  slightest  degree  from 
this  single  end.  I  had  the  right  to  demand  this 
oath  in  return  for  the  forgiveness  I  granted  her." 
[Hc'lene  falls  to  he?'  knees,  then  to  the  floor,  over- 
come.~\ 

"  As  soon  as  little  Henri  shall  reach  the  age  of 
fifteen  years,  I  authorize  Helene  to  take  him  to 
live  in  Paris  for  the  sake  of  the  superior  educa- 
tional facilities  which  are  to  be  found  only  there. 
The  future  Duke  de  Chantemelle  must  be  well 
educated:  the  idea  that  to  his  rank  is  to  be  added 
personal  worth  must  be  inculcated  in  him.  Noth- 
ing should  be  neglected  to  make  him  a  modern 
man,  in  the  deepest  significance  of  the  word:  he 
must  love  his  country  to-day,  and  understand  its 
glories  and  its  greatness.  We  shall  be  lost  if  we 
continue  to  prolong  our  hates  and  prejudices, 
which  in  the  times  immediately  following  the 
Revolution  were  quite  pardonable,  but  which  now- 
adays are  evidence  only  of  laziness  and  selfish 
egotism.  The  Revolution  guillotined  our  fathers 
who  were  at  first  so  ready  to  sacrifice  all  for  its 
sake,  but  we  use  that  argument  as  a  pretext  to  com- 
bat every  attempt  at  social  betterment.  Let  us 
rather  carry  forward  our  own  traditions  by  paying 
for  our  well-intentioned  errors  with  our  lives,  and 
prove  thereby  that  the  nobility  can  at  least  furnish 
an  object-lesson  of  self-immolation,  and  pave  the 
way  for  the  men  of  our  time,  too  keen  of  mind, 
and  too  forgetful  of  sentiment!  When  those  who 
are  more  unfortunate  than  we  ask  for  more  and 

76 


THE  FOSSILS 


better  conditions,  let  us  be  ready  to  put  ourselves 
at  their  head  with  the  idea  that  those  we  are  lead- 
ing may  fire  upon  us  from  behind !  The  nobility 
it  seems  to  me  has  accomplished  its  ends  and  is  a 
thing  of  the  past;  it  has  been  exploited  too  much 
for  the  sake  of  wealth,  and  based  too  little  upon 
merit:  it  has  ever  remained  closed  to  the  great  men 
who  have  sprung  from  the  people,  and  the  people 
have  reciprocated.  Before  it  finally  disappears  it 
must  by  means  of  a  pious  lie  give  the  same  impres- 
sion of  grandeur  of  former  times  that  is  left  by  the 
gigantic  fossils  which  tell  us  of  the  greatness  of 
past  ages ! 

"  Later,  when  my  heir  grows  to  manhood,  I 
ask  that  Claire  tell  him  the  manner  of  my  death, 
how  his  grandparents,  his  aunt,  and  his  mother, 
have  sacrificed  for  him.  In  order  that  his  name 
should  survive  without  a  stain.  He  must  under- 
stand that  this  name,  perpetuated  by  means  of  a 
monstrous  crime,  should  be  borne  with  almost 
superhuman  dignity.  I  want  Claire  to  repeat  to 
him  what  she  said  to  me  yesterday:  '  Our  lives 
all  end  with  yours.  But  what  does  that  matter? 
We  have  searched  the  whole  field  to  find  a  little 
flower!'" 

Duchess  [sobbing].     Robert! 

Duke.     His  is  the  spirit  of  the  race ! 

Claire.  There  is  something  more:  about  me. 
I  promised  Robert  never  to  marry,  and  to  live  with 
Helene  all  my  life. 

Duchess.  No,  no,  Claire,  not  that!  To 
leave  me  all  alone  ! 

Claire  [cah7ily].  I  made  an  oath  to  him! 
[^Tiirning  toward  the  bier.'\     Robert,  again  I  swear 

77 


FOUR  PLAYS 


to  follow  your  wife  and  your  son  wherever  they 
may  go,  and  help  them  carry  their  name  with 
dignity  through  life.  This  I  consider  as  a  debt  of 
honor  contracted  in  your  favor  the  day  I  allowed 
Helene  to  enter  the  family.  She  and  I  promise 
to  devote  ourselves  to  the  education  of  the  child: 
to  make  him  first  an  honest  man,  and,  better, 
a  man  capable  of  dying  for  the  sake  of  an  idea  — 
as  you  said  —  and  as  you  did  — ! 

Duchess.  Claire  —  good-by!  Let  me  say 
good-by  now  :  later,  I  couldn't ! 

[Claire  throivs  herself  into  her  another's  arms. 
They  go  tozvard  the  bier.^ 

Duke  [following  them,  makes  a  last  prayer  by 
his  son,  then,  after  crossing  himself,  he  goes 
straight  to  Helene  and  looking  her  in  the  eyes  says 
in  a  calm,  low  voicel .     Good-by  —  daughter ! 

[He  goes  out.] 


[Curtain.] 


78 


The  Serenade 

{A    Bourgeois    Study) 

Play  in  Three  Acts 

By 
JEAN   JULLIEN 

TRANSLATED     BY 

BARRETT  H.  CLARK 


Presented    for    the    first    time,    in    Paris,    at    the 
Theatre  Libre,  December  23,   1887. 


To  Henry  Ceard 

in  grateful  recognition 
from  his  confrere 

Jean  Jullien. 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED: 

Theodore  Cottin,  jeweler,  j8  years  old. 
Calixte  Poujade,  Cottin's  partner,  ^5  years  old. 
Maxlme  Champanet,  2^  years  old. 
Prosper  Poujade,  Poujade's  nephew,  2y  years 

old. 
DUMOULIN,  52  years  old. 
P'ouRNiER,  servant. 
A  Customer. 

Nathalie  Cottin,  Cottin's  wife,  jj  years  old. 
Genevieve    Cottin,    Nathalie's    daughter,    18 

years  old. 
Celina  Roulard,  ig  years  old. 
Leocadie  Dumoulin,  43  years  old. 
Clemence,  18  years  old. 
Dodo,  Theodore  Cottin's  son,  g  years  old. 
Country  neighbors,  servants. 

The  first  act  takes  place  in  Cottin's  jewelry 
shop,  Paris;  the  second  at  the  Cottins'  country 
house;  the  third  in  the  Cottins'  dining  room,  Paris. 

N.B. —  The  roles  of  Cottin  and  Poujade  should 
not  be  assumed  by  "  comic  "  actors. 

The  theater  should  be  dark. 


THE  SERENADE 

".  .  .  This  revolutionary  Serenade,  which 
destroyed  forever  the  conventional  virgin- 
ity of  ingenues  on  the  stage,  and  by  its 
happy  delineation  of  the  average  bourgeois 
created  at  once  that  type  of  play  which 
has  since  been  termed  the  Theatre-Libre 
play.  .  .  ."  (Henry  Ceard,  in  Evene- 
ment,  October,   1891.) 

ACT  I 

\_A  jeweler's  shop  in  the  Palais-Royal. —  At 
the  back  a  glazed  door;  right,  a  long  table;  a 
door  leading  to  the  stair-case;  down-stage,  a 
cash  desk. —  ^^fi,  ^  round  table,  chairs,  and  a 
door  behind  a  portiere. —  The  furniture  is 
severe  in  style:  dark  wood  with  purple  plush. 

As  the  curtain  rises,  there  is  still  some  day- 
light on  the  scene.'] 

PoujADE  \^seated  before  the  cash  desk,  reading 
a  newspaper.  Excitedly].  Another!  This  is 
too  much!  —  Prosper,  did  you  hear  about  that 
crime  in  the  Rue  des  Vertus? 

Prosper  \_at  the  back,  arranging  jewel-boxes 
upon  a  shelf].      No,  Uncle. 

PoujADE.  Listen,  my  boy,  and  be  warned  once 
for  all  on  the  comforts  of  marriage  !  [Reading.] 
"  They  had  not  been  living  on  the  best  of 
terms — "     Ah!     "Last  night  the  neighborhood 

85 


FOUR  PLAYS 


was  aroused  by  several  revolver  shots :  the  husband 
had  just  fired  upon  the  guilty  pair  when  the  neigh- 
bors disarmed  him.  The  lover  was  killed  in- 
stantly, the  wife  died  two  hours  later."  What  do 
you  say  to  that,  my  lover? 

Prosper.  I  say  that  there  are  evil  women  as 
well  as  good;  the  main  point  is  to  choose  wisely. 

PoujADE.  That's  exactly  where  the  wisest  of 
us  are  fooled,  my  dear  Prosper:  all  women  are 
angels  before  marriage;  afterward  they're  de- 
mons !  Of  course,  I  am  the  first  to  admit  that  Cot- 
tin's  daughter  is  perfect,  adorable;  she  has  — 
every  imaginable  good  quality;  she's  intelligent, 
good-hearted  —  marry  her,  and  then  tell  me  what 
you  find  out. 

Prosper.  Uncle,  do  you  think  that  she — ! 
Mademoiselle  Genevieve  is  — 

PoujADE  [antlioritatively].  Let  me  finish! 
In  the  matter  of  marriage  I've  had  a  little  more 
experience  than  you.  I've  escaped  eleven  mar- 
riages in  my  life-time,  and  I  thank  God  every  day 
for  preserving  me ! 

Prosper.     He  was  wrong  to  do  it ! 

PoujADE  \^going  to  Prosper^.  But  don't  you 
see  that  some  day  or  other  with  my  quick  temper 
I  might  have  done  what  that  man  in  the  Rue  des 
Vertus  did?  Bang!  I'd  have  killed  every  one  in 
the  affair  and  myself  into  the  bargain!  \^He 
shrugs  his  shoulders  and  indicates  by  a  gesture  the 
boxes  ivhich  Prosper  has  been  arranging.'}  An- 
other wooden  one  — ? 

[Enter  DumouJin.~\ 

Prosper  [runs  to  him  quickly.  Smiling'].  Ah, 
Monsieur  Dumoulin! 

86 


THE  SERENADE 


DUMOULIN  [to  Prosper].  How  are  you? 
[To  Poiijade,  who  has  advanced  from  the  cash 
desk  and  stands  holding  out  his  hand.]  How  are 
you,  Monsieur  Poujade?  How  is  dear  old  Cot- 
tin?  And  Madame  Cottin,  and  Genevieve,  and 
Dodo;  everybody? 

Poujade.     Splendid,  Monsieur,  splendid. 

DuMOULiN.  Good,  good!  How  is  business? 
Always  first-rate?  Well,  what  can  you  expect, 
changing  parties  this  way,  and  with  this  set  of 
Deputies  !  Say  what  you  will,  as  long  as  they  re- 
fuse to  make  commercial  laws  for  merchants, 
and  military  laws  for  soldiers,  they'll  never  get 
anywhere.  Every  one  to  his  trade ;  then  the  tax- 
payers are  safe  !  —  Ah,  the  ladies  at  home  told  me 
to  ask  whether  Cottin  had  decided  to  go  to  the 
country  to-morrow? 

Poujade.     I'm  sure  I  can't  tell  you. 

Prosper.  It  depends  on  Madame,  you  know, 
whether  they  go  or  not ;  if  she  takes  it  into  her  head 
to  stay  home,  stay  home  she  will. 

DuMOULiN  [looking  at  his  watch].  I'm  very 
busy,  and  I'd  like  an  answer.  Is  Cottin  here? 
Can  I  see  him  ? 

Poujade.  He's  up-stairs,  but  he's  told  me 
twice  he  doesn't  want  to  be  disturbed.  Prosper, 
go  and  rap  at  his  door  once  more. 

[Prosper  goes  out.] 

DuMOULiN  [maliciously].  I  insist,  because  the 
day  after  to-morrow  I've  made  up  my  mind  to  fight 
a  duel  with  you  at  La  Varenne. 

Poujade.     With  me  ? 

DuMOULiN  [laughing].  Yes,  you:  a  duel  to 
death  —  for  the  seconds !      I  want  to  see  which  of 

87 


FOUR  PLAYS 


us,  with  the  same  bait,  will  catch  the  most  fish  in 
two  hours!     What  do  you  say  to  that? 

PoujADE.  Not  half  bad !  You  know  every 
corner,  every  shallow,  every  pool  in  the  Marne,  as 
well  as  you  do  the  shelves  in  your  own  shop ;  and 
you  have  nicknames  for  the  fish. 

DUMOULIN.  We'll  fish  in  the  same  place  — 
ril  follow  after  you  ! 

PoujADE.  Well,  the  fried  fish  you'll  bring 
home  won't  give  any  one  indigestion ! 

DuMOULiN  [ziilh  an  air  of  oinniscicucc^. 
We'll  see,  we'll  see  w^hether  Normans  are  as  good 
as  Gascons ! 

Prosper  [re-entering^.  I  rapped  and  rapped, 
and  Monsieur  told  me  to  go  to  the  devil,  and  Ma- 
dame said,  "  All  right,  all  right,  Monsieur  will  be 
down  in  two  minutes." 

DuMOULlN.  Hm!  Family  quarrel!  I 
oughtn't  to  interfere  with  a  husband  when  he  is  so 
occupied.  Pll  run  along!  I  know  what  those 
things  are!  Only  this  morning  at  my  place,  I  had 
one;  and  the  reason  — !  My  wife  wanted  to  put 
on  a  yellow  hat,  said  it  was  in  style;  you  should 
have  heard  her:  "  You  haven't  a  grain  of  taste! 
You're  a  tyrant!  You  never  do  anything  for  me ! 
Is  there  a  woman  on  earth  as  miserable  as  I !  — " 
At  your  service.  Monsieur  Poujade;  keep  the  duel 
in  mind.  Good-by,  Prosper.  I'll  look  in  again 
to-morrow. 

\^He  shakes  hands  "ucith  Prosper,  and  goes  0Ht.'\ 

PoujADE  [on  the  threshold].  Kind  regards  to 
the  ladies ! 

[^Poujade  and  Prosper  resume  their  places  as 
88 


THE  SERENADE 


before.  Footsteps  are  heard  on  the  stairs. 
Enter  Cottin.^ 

CoTTiN.  Well,  what  V3  it?  What  is  it  you 
want,  Prosper?     I  have  only  a  moment  — 

Prosper.  Monsieur  Dumoulin  was  here  and 
wanted  to  know  if  you  were  going  to  La  Varenne 
to-morrow,  and  Uncle  told  me  to  ask  you  — 

PoujADE  [interrupting].  Yes,  the  Dumoulins 
it  seems  have  organized  a  little  party  for  Sunday 
and  they  want  to  know  if  you'd  like  to  go  with 
them. 

Prosper  [going  to  the  door].  Shall  I  call  him 
back? 

CoTTiN.  Never  mind. —  How  do  I  know 
whether  we're  going  to  the  country?  How  can 
any  one  decide  anything  with  Nathalie?  A  fish- 
ing party!  So  you  disturb  me  to  tell  me  about  a 
thing  like  that?  A  fishing  party  with  the  Du- 
moulins! If  we  go,  they'll  see  us:  they  live  next 
to  our  villa !  —  Pve  been  laying  down  the  law  to 
my  wife  up-stairs  for  the  last  hour,  and  the  mo- 
ment I  begin  to  get  the  upper  hand  you  break  in 
and  spoil  everything!  Now  Pve  got  to  start  all 
over  again ! 

PoujADE  [going  toward  Cottin].  What's  the 
matter  now? 

CoTTiN  [to  Poiijade,  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  as 
Prosper  goes  back  to  his  work].  Nothing  new! 
Same  old  thing!  It's  about  Dodo!  They're  fill- 
ing him  so  full  of  education  that  he  won't  know 
anything;  they'll  kill  him  !  Think  of  it,  a  babe  of 
nine  reciting  fables !  You  know,  Poujade,  now  he 
can't  even  talk!     All  day  at  his  lessons!     Scrib- 

89 


FOUR  PLAYS 


bling  all  the  time  I  And  that  Monsieur  Maxime 
never  leaves  him,  never  does  anything  but  scold  his 
pupil !  Are  they  going  to  make  a  professor  of  the 
boy?  Why  on  earth  should  he  go  into  the  Tech- 
nical School  if  he's  going  to  be  a  jeweler?  And 
they  won't  listen  to  me !  I  wanted  to  send  him  to 
boarding-school  as  I  did  his  sister,  and  keep 
him  there  till  he  was  seventeen  or  eighteen  —  then 
there  wouldn't  have  been  any  question  about  all 
this  stuff  now !  Nathalie  went  into  hysterics. 
No,  don't  make  the  child  work,  he's  too  delicate! 
An  education  at  the  lycce  wasn't  good  enough  — 
she  had  a  thousand  reasons.      I  had  to  give  in. 

PoujADE.  And  you  a  man  of  character!  I 
wouldn't  let  them  pull  my  nose  that  way !  I'd  say 
"I  want!"  and  I'd  be  obeyed!^ 

CoTTlN.  Of  course,  I  don't  know  anything 
about  education  and  all  that,  so  I  ought  to  listen  to 
my  wife.  At  bottom,  I  don't  think  she's  all 
wrong,  but  she  exaggerates.  If  I'd  had  Latin 
stuffed  down  my  throat  all  day  like  Dodo,  I'd  have 
gone  crazy.     Really,  I'm  worried  about  him. 

PoujADE.  Give  in  to  your  wife,  old  man,  it's 
your  duty  as  a  husband  and  father !  Struggle 
with  women?  Never!  \_Confid'ni(jly.^  But  really, 
Cottin,  now  I  think  of  it,  you  can  get  rid  of  one  of 
your  tyrants  by  marrying  your  daughter. 

Cottin  {^shrugging  his  shoulders].  You're 
joking;  she's  too  young  anyway,  and  then  you  know 
Genevieve  is  the  dearest  creature  I  have,  and  I'd 
like  to  give  her  to  my  dearest  friend.  You're  the 
man,  but  unluckily  you're  a  trifle  too  —  old.  [/« 
an  undertone.]  Your  heir!  [Poiuling  to  Pros- 
per.] 

90 


THE  SERENADE 


PoujADE.  Not  SO  loud!  If  he  heard  you, 
he'd  be  sick  for  joy. 

COTTIN  \_laughing'\.  You  think  so?  So  much 
the  better!  At  least  he'll  not  grow  up  to  be  an 
old  curmudgeon,  like  his  uncle ! 

\_Steps  are  heard  on  the  stair-case.  The  voice 
of  a  child  outside  sings~\ 

Voice 

"  On  dainty  wing  the  butterfly 
Floats  from  flow'r  to  flow'r — " 

CoTTlN.  Not  so  much  noise,  Monsieur  Dodo, 
please!  {^The  voice  sounds  nearer.]  Poor  little 
martyr,  must  have  some  fun,  I  suppose ! 

[^Cottin  sits  down  near  the  cash  desk.  Enter 
Dodo.] 

Dodo.     It's  me! 

l^He  crosses  the  stage  with  his  books  under  his 
arm,  and  makes  for  the  door  on  the  opposite 
side.     He  drops  some  books.] 

CoTTiN.  Where  are  you  going,  you  young 
vagabond? 

Dodo.     There. 

CoTTiN.     What  are  you  going  to  do? 

Dodo  [picking  up  the  books].  Work!  Don't 
I  always  have  to  work  in  this  house? 

COTTIN.     Why  there,  in  the  little  room? 

Dodo.     Mama  told  me  to. 

COTTIN.  Another  of  her  Ideas! — Weren't 
you  comfortable  up-stairs? 

DoDO.  Mama  said  she  wanted  to  keep  an  eye 
on  me,  and  every  time  she  came  down  to  the  store 
she  wanted  Monsieur  Maxime  to  come  down  with 
her! 

PoujADE   [who  has  gone  upstage  to  Prosper, 
91 


FOUR  PLAYS 


returns  to  the  cash  dcsk^.  What  do  you  say  to 
that,  Cottin?     What  have  you  to  complain  of? 

CoTTiN  [^w'lth  resignatiou^.  Nothing!  [To 
Dodo.]  Is  your  mother  coming  down  soon? 
She  must  know  I  hav^e  to  go  out  with  Poujade:  we 
have  an  appointment ! 

Dodo.     She'll  be  down  soon. 

[^He  goes  out  slowly.] 

Cottin.  I  tell  you  they're  killing  him!  [He 
shakes  his  head  lugubriously,  then  turns  round  zvith 
an  air  of  determination.]  Oh,  Poujade,  that  mat- 
ter of  the  diamonds  —  is  it  worth  bothering  about, 
or  shall  we  let  it  go? 

Poujade.  It's  worth  considering;  if  nothing 
comes  of  it,  we  can  let  it  go. 

Cottin  [impatiently;  as  he  rises].  Why 
doesn't  Nathalie  come?  [To  Prosper.]  Pros- 
per, go  up  and  tell  Madame  to  hurry.  [Prosper 
goes  out.]  Six  o'clock  !  She'll  make  us  miss  that 
appointment!  [Poujade  goes  out  at  the  back.] 
How  tiresome  women  are,  they're  never  on  time ! 
[Going  to  the  door  opening  upon  the  stair-case.] 
Nathalie!     We're  waiting  for  you,  dear! 

[Enter  Madame  Cottin,  folloived  by  Maxime, 
who  carries  some  articles  of  clothing  on  his 
arm.] 

Mme.  Cottin  [sitting  at  the  cash  desk].  Here 
I  am !  Here  I  am !  You'd  think  the  house  was 
on  fire  to  hear  you  shout  so ! 

Cottin,  Did  you  bring  down  my  hat  and  coat 
and  umbrella? 

[Poujade  is  meantime  putting  on  his  hat  and 
coat,  up-stage.] 

Mme.  Cottin.  Monsieur  Maxime  was  kind 
92 


THE  SERENADE 


enough  to  bring  everything:  hat,  coat,  and  um- 
brella. 

CoTTiN.  Why  do  you  trouble  Monsieur  Max- 
ime?     Wasn't  Fournier  there? 

Mme.  Cottin.  I  sent  him  to  do  some  errands 
for  me. 

Cottin  [hurrying  to  Maxime  who  is  in  the  cen- 
ter of  the  stage^.  I'm  very,  very  sorry.  Monsieur 
Maxime !  I  don't  know  why  my  wife  imposes  on 
you  so!  [To  Mme.  Cottin.']  Oh,  Nathalie,  to 
think  of  Monsieur  Maxime's  carrying  my  things  ! 

Maxime.  Nonsense,  Monsieur  Cottin,  I'm 
only  too  glad  to  be  of  service  to  you  I 

Cottin  [relieving  Maxime  of  the  clothes].  I 
hear  they've  changed  your  working  quarters  in  the 
house;  they've  put  you  in  the  customers'  waiting 
room. 

Maxime  [passing  to  the  left  of  Cottin,  and  help- 
ing him  put  on  his  coat].  Yes,  Madame  thought 
the  room  we  had  been  using  was  too  much  exposed 
to  the  brightness  of  the  setting  sun,  that  it  would 
be  too  hot  in  the  evenings. 

Cottin  [interrupting].  What,  Dodo's  room 
exposed  to  the  setting  sun? 

Mme.  Cottin  [aside  to  her  husband].  I  told 
him  that  as  an  excuse;  I  merely  want  to  keep 
watch. 

Cottin  [aside].  That's  wise.  [J  loud.] 
Yes,  I  think  you'll  be  more  comfortable  down  here. 
[To  Poujade.]  Are  you  ready,  Poujade?  [To 
Mme.  Cottin.]  That  bill  from  Durandeau  will 
probably  come;  pay  it.  Then  there's  that  insur- 
ance agent's  watch  to  be  fixed. —  Send  for  Madame 
de  Champtonnerre's  necklace.     That's  all,  I  think. 

93 


FOUR  PLAYS 


Sell  as  many  chronometers  as  possible:  they're  not 
worth  a  sou  nowadays.  [He  starts  to  go,  hut 
comes  back.]  Excuse  me,  dear,  I  almost  forgot  1 
[He  kisses  her.] 

Mme.  Cottin.  I  forgive  you.  [She  kisses 
him.      Cottin  and  Poiijade  go  out.] 

MxME.  Cottin  [going  toward  Maxime,  who 
stands  apart] .      One  for  him  ;  two  for  you  ! 

[She  kisses  him  on  both  cheeks.] 

Maxime.  You  must  be  careful.  What  if  he 
had  forgotten  his  handkerchief,  or  his  cane  —  or 
anything? 

Mme.  Cottin.  Love  doesn't  think  of  such 
things,  Maxime.  [She  brings  him  down  to  the 
cash  desk,  and  makes  him  sit  by  her  side.]  Here, 
sit  next  to  me  —  close.  I  want  to  see  you,  hear 
you,  look  at  you  —  my  poet !  Repeat  to  me  again 
some  of  those  beautiful  and  graceful  words  that 
carry  me  up  into  the  clouds ;  recite  those  love  verses 
you  whispered  to  me  the  other  evening:  about 
Spring,  and  the  honeysuckles  and  the  flowers  — 

Maxime  [sulkily].  What  put  it  into  your  head 
to  have  me  give  my  lessons  here?  Weren't  we 
much  better  in  the  other  room?  Any  one  might 
find  us  here,  a  customer,  a  shop-keeper  — 

Dodo  [entering].  M'sieu!  —  M'sieu!  I've 
copied  the  paragraph.      What  must  T  copy  now? 

Mme.  Cottin.  Dodo,  you're  awful;  can't  you 
be  good  for  two  minutes?  You're  very  naughty! 
When  Lm  talking  with  your  teacher,  T  don't  want 
to  be  interrupted.  Copy  the  next  paragraph  and 
don't  disturb  us  ! 

Dodo.  Lve  finished  the  chapter  —  I  can't  copy 
the  next  paragraph. 

94 


THE  SERENADE 


Mme.  Cottin.     Begin  with  the  next  chapter. 

Maxime  [rising'].  I'll  show  him  —  he  can't 
find  the  place. 

Mme.  Cottin  [retaining  Maxijue].  Don't  go, 
he's  old  enough  to  find  out  for  himself. 

Maxime.  Do  what  your  mother  tells  you :  be- 
gin the  next  chapter.  I'll  come  and  see  how  you're 
getting  on  in  a  minute. 

[Dodo  goes  out.^ 

Mme.  Cottin  [to  Maxiine,  severely^.  Now, 
Monsieur,  tell  me  what  debauches  you  had  last 
night;  where  did  you  go? 

Maxime.  A  number  of  us  met  and  had  our 
monthly  dinner  —  there  was  music,  and  we  re- 
cited poetry. 

Mme.  Cottin.     Did  you  recite? 

[Dodo,  who  had  slowly  made  his  retreat  comes 
back  laughing. '\ 

DoDO.     There  aren't  any  more  chapters ! 

Mme.  Cottin  [very  angry].  Back  again, 
Dodo!?  You're  going  to  take  your  note-book. 
Monsieur,  and  write  out  twice  the  whole  conjuga- 
tion, "  I  am  a  disobedient  and  rude  boy." 

Dodo.     Well,  I  can't  help  it  if  the  book  stops ! 

[He  goes  out,  with  tears  in  his  eyes.~\ 

Mme.  Cottin.     What  did  you  recite  ? 

Maxime.      The  Serenade. 

Mme.  Cottin.  Oh,  The  Serenade!  How 
they  must  have  applauded !  Did  they  call  you 
back  twenty  times  and  carry  you  around  in  tri- 
umph!? Oh,  what  a  lovely  poem  it  is !  So  full  of 
love!  And  you  recite  it  so  passionately!  I'll 
never  forget  the  night  I  heard  it  for  the  first  time ! 
Do  you  remember,  Maxime? 

95 


FOUR  PLAYS 


Maxime.     Oh,  I've  repeated  it  so  often — ! 

Mme.  Cottin  [/■//  the  clouds].  It  was  a  Sun- 
day; we  were  in  the  country,  at  La  Varenne,  with 
the  Dumoulins  and  our  cousins  the  Boulards.  It 
was  night,  we  were  on  the  terrace  —  a  hot  night, 
and  the  air  was  full  of  perfume!  I  never  had 
such  a  lovely  sensation!  Your  voice  rippled  like 
a  nightingale's  —  I  was  yours  then,  you  had  com- 
pletely conquered  me !  Don't  you  remember,  aft- 
erwards, among  the  young  vines,  the  kisses  — 

Maxime  [coldly].     Oh,  so  that  was  the  day? 

Mme.  Cottin.  And  the  Boulards  and  the 
Dumoulins  who  were  looking  everywhere  for  us ! 
What  if  they  had  found  us ! 

Maxime.  I  can't  imagine  what  led  you  — 
why,  only  a  few  steps  away  from  your  husband ! 

IVIme  Cottin,  Can  you  think  of  such  things  at 
a  time  like  that?  Think  how  careful  w^e've  had  to 
be  since!     To  avoid  any  suspicion! 

Maxime.  Are  you  sure  your  husband  suspects 
nothing? 

Mme.  Cottin.  Do  you  think  he  would  act  this 
way  if  he  did? 

Maxime.  No,  but  I  think  I  see  him  hiding 
something  under  his  good-natured  appearance. 
Take  care,  he  may  be  spying !  The  way  he  gives 
in  to  everything  you  ask  —  it  may  be  a  trap.  I'd 
feel  sorry  for  you  if  he  ever  found  out ! 

Mme.  Cottin.  I  know  he's  a  thousand  miles 
from  suspecting  anything.  He  thinks  you  are 
very  much  interested  in  Dodo's  education.  In  case 
he  heard  or  thought  he  saw  anything  suspicious,  I 
should  simply  deny  everything,  and  he'd  believe 
me. 

96 


THE  SERENADE 


Maxime.     But  how  about  Poujade? 

Mme.  Cottin.  He's  more  blind  than  my  hus- 
band! And  blindness  in  an  old  bachelor  is  the 
worst  of  all!  Poujade!  He'd  swallow  any 
story  you  gave  him.  He's  easier  to  deceive  with 
his  fierce  look  than  Cottin  with  his  appearance  of 
kindness.  Cottin  knows  women,  but  he  doesn't 
know  Woman ! 

Maxime.     And  his  nephew? 

Mme.  Cottin.  Hm!  Ssh!  [Aside]. 
Speak  of  the  devil  — 

[Enter  Prosper,  back.  He  looks  for  some- 
thing in  one  of  the  show-cases.] 

[Aloud  to  Maxijne].  Then  you  don't  think  a 
whole  chapter  is  too  much  to  learn,  Monsieur? 
Please  don't  tire  him  out:  his  health  isn't  too 
good,  you  know ! 

Maxime.   I  shall  follow  your  wishes,  Madame. 

[He  goes  out,  left.] 

Prosper  [zvith  a  jewel-box  in  his  hand].  Ma- 
dame, I  have  looked  everywhere,  but  I  can't  find 
Fournier. 

Mme.  Cottin.  That's  not  strange.  If  you'd 
asked  me  I  could  have  told  you  :  I  sent  him  on  some 
errands.      What  did  you  want  him  for? 

Prosper.  To  go  to  the  shop  and  get  Madame 
de  Champtonnerre's  necklace. 

Mme.  Cottin.  That's  too  bad!  You'd  bet- 
ter go  to  the  shop  yourself  and  get  it. 

Prosper  [hesitating  a  moment].  That  would 
be  the  easiest  way;  I'll  go  at  once. 

[Prosper  goes  out.  Mme.  Cottin  leaves  the 
cash  desk  and  goes  to  the  door,  left,  making  a 
sign  to  Ma.xime.] 

97 


FOUR  PLAYS 


[Re-cntt'r  Maxime.^ 

Mme.  Cottin.  One  word  more,  Monsieur 
Maxime  I  [She  drops  the  portiere  over  the 
door.]  Leave  him  to  write  out  his  conjugation, 
and  come  and  talk  with  me.  We  have  so  little 
time  together!  \^They  sit  down  on  chairs,  next 
each  other.] 

Maxime  [///  at  ease].  So  you  think  this  Mon- 
sieur Prosper,  who  looks  daggers  at  me  all  the 
time,  hasn't  the  least  suspicion?  Do  you  think 
he  hasn't  heard  by  chance  some  of  our  foolish  con- 
versations, some  stray  word? 

Mme.  Cottin  [laugJiing].  No!  And  the 
reason  is  so  simple  that  I  wonder  you  haven't  seen 
it !  Do  you  know  why  Poujade's  nephew  is  work- 
ing in  our  shop? 

Maxime.     To  learn  the  trade,  isn't  he? 

Mme.  Cottin.     There's  another  reason. 

Maxime.  Perhaps  his  uncle  hopes  he'll  suc- 
ceed him  some  day? 

Mme.  Cottin.  Come,  you  can  guess;  it's  not 
so  hard.  Poujade  has  a  nephew,  my  husband  has 
a  daughter;  they  are  about  the  same  age  — 

Maxime  \^rising~\.     He  marry  Genevieve  !  ? 

Mme.  Cottin.     Why  not? 

Maxime  [taking  Jiis  chair  to  the  table].  Of 
course  —  why  —  not  ? 

Mme.  Cottin  [also  rising].  Now  do  you  see 
why  Prosper  can't  suspect  us?  He  is  very  much 
in  love  with  Genevieve  — 

Maxime.     Are  you  sure  of  that? 

Mme.  Cottin.  Absolutely  sure.  If  he  does 
look  daggers  at  you,  it's  only  because  he  thinks 
you  are  trying  to  please  me  for  another  reason; 

98 


THE  SERENADE 


he  believes  you  are  a  rival,  that  you're  making  love 
to  his  sweetheart.     Amusing,  isn't  it? 

Maxime.  Do  you  imagine  that  he  thinks  I'm 
in  love  with  Mademoiselle  Genevieve? 

Mme.  Cottin.  I'm  sure  of  it,  and  further- 
more I'll  do  my  best  to  keep  him  thinking  so. 
The  other  evening,  when  I  was  talking  with  the 
Boulards,  I  gave  him  to  understand  that  you  had 
asked  for  Nini's  hand  in  marriage,  and  that  you 
had  not  been  refused.  He  was  simply  furious, 
and  left  the  room  without  saying  a  word!  How 
I  laughed ! 

Maxime  [troubled].  You  were  wrong  to  do 
that;  see  what  an  awkward  position  you  put  me  in. 
If  you  make  it  appear  that  I  want  to  marry  Made- 
moiselle Genevieve,  then  I'll  have  to  act  the  part, 
and  pretend  to  — 

Mme.  Cottin.  So  much  the  better.  We'll 
have  so  many  more  chances  for  meeting!  It's  so 
much  nicer  to  see  you  here  than  in  that  hotel  where 
we  used  to  meet. 

Maxime.  But  I'm  in  a  nice  fix  with  Mademoi- 
selle Genevieve !  How  can  I  make  love  to  her 
without  asking  her  to  marry  me?  I'm  not  very 
good  at  being  sentimental,  and  my  platonic 
love  — !!  What  will  she  say?  What  will  she 
think  of  a  lover  who  draws  back  the  moment  he 
ought  to  propose  ?     I'll  have  to  act  a  perfect  cad  ! 

Mme.  Cottin.  She  won't  object;  you  don't 
know  how  simple  these  boarding-school  girls  are. 
They  don't  know  the  A,  B,  C  of  love.  I  really 
don't  think  you  would  stand  the  slightest  chance 
with  her  anyway.     No  offense? 

Maxime.     The  idea ! 
99 


FOUR  PLAYS 


MiME.  CoTTiN.  Oh,  your  lordship,  she  has 
made  her  choice  ah^eady.  Prosper  is  the  man,  and 
I  don't  think  it's  a  half-bad  match.  They're  not 
too  much  in  love,  and  both  will  make  excellent 
shop-keepers.  She  may  change  some  day,  maybe 
she'll  find  her  Maxime !  Come  here,  kiss  me ! 
\^SJic  kisses  him,  then  resumes  her  plaec  at  the  cash 
desk,  Maxime  foUozi'ing  her.]  You  haven't  yet 
told  me  how  your  evening  ended? 

Maxime.  It  was  late  —  the  night  was  a  bit 
chilly,  so  I  went  straight  home,  in  company  with 
the  stars  of  night,  and  went  to  bed. 

Mme.  Cottin.  There  were  women  at  the  ban- 
quet, weren't  there?  Actresses  —  mm  —  wom- 
en —  ? 

Maxime.     No  —  really  —  not  a  single  one. 

Mme.  Cottin.  Not  one?  You're  lying,  there 
were,  I  can  see  it  in  your  eyes !  Don't  try  to  deny 
it! 

Maxime.     My  dear  Nathalie,  I  tell  you  — 

[A  custodier  enters,  after  having  examined  at 
some  length  the  goods  exhibited  in  the  win- 
dows.] 

Customer  [to  Maxime],  Monsieur,  Pve  seen 
your  big  advertisements  in  the  papers;  chro- 
nometers for  twelve  francs  —  guaranteed  for  two 
years.     May  I  see  one? 

Mme.  Cottin  [without  moving  or  even  turning 
her  head].  Monsieur,  we  haven't  any  just  now; 
we'll  have  some  to-morrow.  Come  back  then,  will 
you? 

Customer.  Well,  you  have  those  eighteen- 
franc  chronometers,  at  any  rate?  I  see  some  over 
there ! 

ICG 


THE  SERENADE 


Mme.  Cottin  [as  before].  Yes,  but  they're 
not  guaranteed,  I  don't  advise  you  to  buy  one  of 
those. 

Customer.  Well,  how  about  the  twenty-franc 
ones? 

Mme.  Cottin  [immovable].  They're  not  reli- 
able. 

Customer.     I'll  come  back  later,  then. 

[He  goes  out.] 

Mme,  Cottin  [rises  and  goes  to  the  center  of 
the  stage,  looking  at  the  door].  To  think  that  I 
was  born  to  be  a  jeweler's  wife !  Argue  with  cus- 
tomers, listen  to  their  complaints,  haggle  over  a 
sou,  or  the  price  of  a  watch!  I  was  never  under- 
stood! No  one  ever  really  understands  me  !  My 
heart  is  bursting!  Oh,  Maxime,  Maxime,  you 
don't  love  me,  you  have  stopped  loving  me !  You 
were  with  those  women  last  night  —  I  know  you 
were  I 

Maxime.  But  I  tell  you  I  wasn't!  I  re- 
peat — ! 

Mme.  Cottin.  You're  moody,  Maxime, 
you've  been  like  that  the  past  few  days,  you  hardly 
say  a  word,  you're  not  the  way  you  used  to  be, 
during  the  first  days.  You  don't  talk  the  way  you 
did  then!  You  seem  afraid  to  be  near  me!  Do 
you  —  do  you  feel  guilty  ? 

Maxime  [coldly  and  without  showing  any  en- 
thusiasm]. How  ridiculous!  Nothing  of  the 
kind!  I've  never  been  so  happy  in  my  life! 
Haven't  I  everything  I  could  wish  for?  To  be 
near  you? ! 

Mme.  Cottin.  No,  you're  changed !  Before, 
you'd  have  kissed  me  twenty  times  while  you  were 

lOI 


FOUR  PLAYS 


saying  that!  Maxime,  I  have  a  rival!  I  feel  it! 
Oh,  I'm  so  miserable  ! 

[She  falls  on  a  chair  near  the  table.'] 

Maxime.  Really,  Nathalie,  your  jealousy  is 
ridiculous;  you're  not  at  all  the  same  woman  you 
were;  this  is  all  nonsense.  Do  you  imagine  that 
when  I  have  you  I  can  think  of  anything  else? 
Would  I  leave  you?  If  I  seem  a  little  —  out  of 
sorts  to-day  —  it's  because  I  have  a  headache.  I 
must  have  had  a  little  too  much  champagne  last 
night. 

Mme.  Cottin  [going  to  him].  And  you 
wouldn't  tell  me  you  were  sick!      Poor  dear! 

Maxime.  It's  only  a  simple  headache.  To- 
morrow I'll  be  quite  well. 

Mme.  Cottin.  It's  more  than  a  simple  head- 
ache; you  have  a  fever!  Have  some  mint;  I'll 
get  you  some !  Or  some  brandy !  Or  a  glass 
of  Madeira!      I'll  get  ready  some  tea  for  you! 

[She  runs  to  the  door,  right.] 

NIaxime.  No,  please  don't!  Nathalie, 
please ! 

Mme.  Cottin.  Drink  the  tea;  or  I  won't 
believe  a  word  of  what  you've  said! 

[The  door-bell  rings;  enter  Genevieve,  fol- 
lowed by  a  maid  carrying  a  roll  of  music] 

Genevieve  [comes  in  smiling  at  her  mother]. 
Hello,  Mama?  [To  Maxime.]  How  are 
you.  Monsieur?  [Maxime  hozvs.]  Made- 
moiselle says  I've  never  been  in  such  good  voice 
as  to-day.  I  sang  my  big  number  three  times;  she 
was  delighted.  She  complimented  me  and  said 
what  a  pity  it  was  I  couldn't  go  on  the  stage ! 

Mme.     Cottin      [not     interested].        Singing 

I02 


THE  SERENADE 


teachers  always  say  that!  [To  the  maid,  as  she 
goes  out.'\  Marie,  make  the  tea  at  once  for 
Monsieur  Maxime,  please. 

Genevieve  [to  Maxime,  "dcho  is  near  the 
table].     Sick,  Monsieur  Maxime? 

Maxime.  Your  mother  is  too  kind;  it's  merely 
a  headache.     It's  nothing  at  all! 

Mme.  Cottin.  Merely  a  headache  that  makes 
him  sad,  out  of  sorts  —  Don't  try  to  hide  it,  Mon- 
sieur Maxime:  you're  sick,  very  sick.  Isn't  he, 
Genevieve? 

Genevieve.     That's  so.     How  pale  you  are ! 

Maxime  [laughing].  I  have  no  time  for  sick- 
ness ! 

[Enter  Cottin  and  Poujade. 

Genevieve  runs  and  kisses  her  father,  then  re- 
turns to  talk  with  Maxime]. 

Mme.  Cottin.  Back  again?  [To  Poujade.] 
How  about  the  diamonds? 

Poujade.     Ask  Cottin. 

Cottin  [going  to  the  cash  desk  and  arranging 
the  papers].     No,  you  tell  her ! 

Poujade  [center].  Well,  Madame,  a  fresh 
triumph  for  your  husband! 

Cottin  [shrugging  his  shoulders].  You  al- 
ways put  it  that  way !  I  have  nothing  to  do  with 
it,  it's  merely  the  House  of  Cottin-Poujade. 

Mme.  Cottin.     Tell  us,  Poujade. 

Poujade  [advancing].  The  moment  the 
other  bidders  saw  Cottin,  they  retired  from  the 
field  !  The  whole  thing  was  over  in  two  seconds ; 
when  he  offered  to  give  references,  they  made  fun 
of  him:  "  Cottin,  a  man  like  M.  Cottin,  known 
through  all  the  business  world  of  Paris  for  more 

103 


FOUR  PLAYS 


than  thirty  years  for  his  financial  integrity,  a  man 
held  in  high  esteem,  a  man  to  whom  everybody 
would  like  to  be  a  debtor!  Ask  references  from 
Monsieur  Cottin?  It  would  be  a  disgrace  to  ask 
for  it!" 

Cottin.  Why,  Poujade,  they  spoke  of  the 
House,  not  me ! 

Poujade  [^go'ntg  upstage].  House  if  you  like, 
but  yours  was  the  credit,  you  are  the  most  impor- 
tant part  of  the  House ! 

Cottin.  No  one  can  be  in  business  as  long  as 
I  have  and  not  get  to  be  well  known.  There's  no 
need  exaggerating! 

Poujade  \_tiinis  round  and  sees  Machnnc  Cot  tin 
crossing  the  stage  zvilli  a  cup  of  tisane,^  ivhicJi 
she  has  just  received  from  the  maid].  Hello, 
who's  this  tisane  for?     Is  someone  sick? 

Genevieve.  Yes  —  Monsieur  Maxime. 
Didn't  you  notice  how  badly  he  was  looking? 

Poujade.  Why,  what's  the  matter,  Professor, 
indigestion  of  Latin,  or  did  you  get  choked  on 
Philosophy? 

Cottin  [rising  quickly  from  his  chair].  Mon- 
sieur Maxime  sick?     My  dear  Monsieur! 

Maxime  [coming  forzvard].  Nothing,  Mes- 
sieurs, only  a  slight  headache.  I  have  them  from 
time  to  time  — 

Cottin.  You'd  better  go  home  and  to  bed; 
that's  the  best  thing  to  do. 

Poujade  [at  the  back].  Drink  a  big  glass  of 
punch,  hire  a  nurse,  and  sweat  the  whole  thing 
out  of  your  system  ! 

1  A  light  hot  drink,  usually  flavored  with  orange. 
104 


THE  SERENADE 


Mme.  Cottin  [eagerly].  You'd  better  go 
home,  Monsieur  Maxime!  Take  my  advice, 
don't  try  to  give  your  lesson  this  evening. 

Genevieve  \_giving  him  the  cup  of  tisane']. 
Drink,  it  down  boiHng  hot. 

Maxime.     I'll  burn  my  mouth! 

PoujADE.  What's  the  difference?  Drink  it, 
man! 

Mme.  Cottin  [calling  through  the  door, 
right].  Fournier,  Monsieur  Maxime's  hat  and 
coat,  at  once ! 

Cottin  [taking  Maxime's  hand].  You  have 
a  fearful  fever,  don't  take  cold  now.  The 
weather's  changing,  and  you  might  easily  come 
down  with  bronchitis  —  and  you  can't  fool  with 
bronchitis ! 

PoujADE  [shrugging  his  shoulders].  I  know 
how  to  treat  bronchitis :  a  dozen  punches  ! 

[Enter  Fournier  zvith  Maxime's  coat  and  hat. 
Mme.  Cottin  and  Genevieve  help  him  put  on 
the  coat.] 

Mme.  Cottin.     There! 

Genevieve  [turning  up  his  collar].  Keep 
your  neck  covered. 

Mme.  Cottin.     Yes,  take  care  of  your  throat! 

Maxime.  Ladies,  I'm  quite  embarrassed;  I 
can't  tell  you  — 

Mme.  Cottin.  Don't  speak  of  it!  Four- 
nier, you  go  with  Monsieur  Maxime  to  his  rooms. 

[Fournier  bows.] 

Cottin.  That's  right,  run  along.  If  you 
don't  feel  well  enough,  don't  come  to-morrow;  take 
a  rest.     Good-night ! 

105 


FOUR  PLAYS 


[Enter  Dodo,  having  just  licard  the  last  words. '\ 

Dodo. 

"  Vacation  at  last! 
Our  troubles  are  past! 
Our  teachers  and  books 
In  the  fire  we  cast !  " 

Mme.  Cottin.  Heartless  little  wretch! 
What  if  he  were  to  be  very  sick? 

Genevieve.  Yes,  what  if  your  teacher  were 
to  have  an  awful  fever? 

Cottin  [.w"w/)/v].  No,  I  think  it'll  be  bron- 
chitis if  anything;  I'll  tell  you  why:  bronchitis  is 
a  disease  of  the  vocal  organs,  and  the  vocal  or- 
gans are  connected  with  the  brain;  that  always 
begins  with  a  headache ! 

PoujADE  [laughing^.  I'll  tell  you  what's  the 
matter  with  him!  I'll  bet  he  had  a  high  old  time 
last  night,  and  wants  to  rest  up  for  to-night 
again ! 

Mme.  Cottin.  Poujade,  to  say  that  about 
Monsieur  Maxime! 

Poujade.  There's  nothing  wrong  in  that! 
Boys  will  be  boys!  It's  only  natural.  You 
needn't  worry ! 

Cottin  [looking  at  his  watch].  Hurry  up, 
dinner's  ready,  children,  let's  not  keep  the  cook 
waiting. 

[He  goes  toward  the  stairs.] 

Mme.  Cottin  [stays  down-stage  with  Gene- 
vieve. Poujade  lights  the  gas  at  the  back.] 
Perhaps  Poujade  Is  right?  What  if  it  were  only 
a  pretext? 

Genevieve.  Oh,  Mama,  wouldn't  he  have 
told  the  truth? 

io6 


THE  SERENADE 


Mme.  Cottin.  I'll  soon  know.  [Aside,  in 
an  undertone.^  Then  you'll  have  me  to  deal 
with,  Monsieur  Maxime ! 


[Curtain.] 


107 


ACT  II 

\_The  terrace  of  a  country  house.  Right,  a 
porch  and  a  garden;  down-stage,  a  table  and 
chairs.  Left,  the  entrance  to  the  house;  the 
lighted  windows  of  the  drawing-room  are  seen 
from  an  angle. —  A  group  of  young  girls  and 
young  men  are  playing  and  conversing  to- 
gether. 

It  is  night,  and  the  trees  are  festooned  with 
lanterns;  a  large  lantern  is  on  the  table;  this 
lights  up  the  flower  garden. 

Madame  Cottin,  Genevieve,  Madame  Du- 
moulin,  Celina  Boulard,  C lenience,  are  seated 
in  a  circle;  Maxime,  Prosper,  and  the  other 
young  people  stand  behind  the  rest.^ 

Maxime  [to  Celina].  Here's  my  basket; 
What  do  I  get? 

Celina.     Hm  !     Charming  young  man  1 

Genevieve.  Forfeit!  forfeit!  That's  the 
third  time  it's  been  said!  Try  something  else, 
Cehna. 

Celina.     What  do  you  want  me  to  say? 

Maxime.  Nothing  else,  Mademoiselle,  please! 
What  you  have  already  said  is  too  Battering  to 
have  you  take  it  back,  [To  Genevieve.]  I  give 
the  forfeit  to  Mademoiselle  Celina. 

Celina  [to  Prosper].  I  pass  the  basket  to 
you,  Monsieur  Prosper;  what  do  I  get? 

io8 


THE  SERENADE 


Prosper  \_glanc'uig  at  Maxime].     One  pawn! 

Maxime  [^tuniing  to  Prosper^.     A  fool! 

Prosper.     They  go  together ! 

Maxime  [going  up  to  Prosper^.  I  think  a  ht- 
tle  breeding  would  do  you  no  harm ! 

Prosper.  And  for  yourself,  a  little  less  —  ar- 
rogance ! 

Mme.  Cottin.  Now,  Messieurs,  what  is  the 
matter?  Is  this  the  way  you  play  at  innocent 
games?  Monsieur  Maxime,  Prosper,  please, 
please:  we're  all  friends  here  —  no  quarrels, 
please ! 

Maxime.  Madame,  your  request  is  too  rea- 
sonable for  me  to  refuse.  [To  Prosper.']  1 
shall  be  happy  to  discuss  the  matter  with  you  later. 
[Pie  resumes  his  place  behind  Mme.  Cottin.] 

Genevieve.  Messieurs,  that  wasn't  at  all 
nice  of  you  —  to  spoil  our  game.  We  don't  know 
now  where  we  were  —  it's  as  bad  as  if  we  were 
playing  Rhymes. 

Clemence.  Oh,  I'm  tired  of  Charades,  and 
Rhymes,  and  Puns ! 

Mme.  Cottin.  Maybe  Monsieur  Maxime 
would  be  good  enough  to  recite  something? 

Genevieve  and  Celina.  Oh  yes,  Monsieur 
Maxime ! 

Maxime  [maliciously].  Oh,  not  first!  After 
Monsieur!    [Indicating  Prosper.] 

Prosper.     As  you  please! 

[He  comes  forward  within  the  circle  and  turns 
to  Genevieve.] 

"  Triolet  to  the  Girl  I  Love:  " 

"  In  the  pleasant  season  of  love  — " 
109 


FOUR  PI.AYS 


l^Entt'f  Poiijcide  and  DumouUn,  followed  by 
Cott'in.  They  come  down-slayc  conversing, 
zihile  Cot  tin  stops  near  the  tabic] 

PoujADE.  You  saw  the  pear  (hey  left! 
Well,  the  ones  they  took  were  twice  as  big! 

UuMOULiN  [^stopping].  You  don't  mean 
it! 

PoujADE.  Twice  as  big?  No,  some  of  them 
were  three  times  as  big!  If  Pd  caught  them 
stealing  those  pears,  Pd  give  'em  a  piece  of  my 
mind ! 

DUiMOULiN  [continues  walking  again].  Yes, 
I  know  you !  You  wouldn't  have  left  enough 
to  recognize  ! 

The  Company.     Ssh !     Ssh ! 

Genevieve.  Silence,  Messieurs!  There's 
a  recitation  going  on ! 

PoujADE.     Suppose  we've  got  to  listen ! 

DuMOULiN.     Let's  hear  it! 

[Cottin  sits  by  the  small  table,  right;  he  leans 
his  elbozvs  upon  it.  Dumoulin  and  Poujade 
stand  at  tlie  opposite  side  of  the  stage.] 

Prosper  [reciting  in  an  awkward  manner]. 

"  Triolet  to  the  Girl  I  Love." 

"  Love's  happy  hour  at  last  is  come. 
And  through  the  forest  sweetly  sound 
The  songs  of  birds  in  harmony  — 
Love's  happy  hour  at  last  is  come ! 
My  love  then  from  her  cottage  comes 
She's  charming  as  she  minuets 
And  nods  and  am'rously  coquets  — 
My  love  then  from  her  cottage  comes. 
[frith  a  threatening  glance  at  Maxinie.] 
1  lO 


THE  SERENADE 


"  Two  strutting  cocks  her  favors  court 
And  by  her  side  their  feathers  preen; 
One  timid,  one  the  other  sort  — 
Two  strutting  cocks  her  favors  court. 
First  one  in  tender  strains  holds  forth, 
The  other  sings  a  Serenade  — 
Two  strutting  cocks  her  favors  court 
And  by  her  side  their  feathers  preen. 
[/«  despair.] 

"  The  fooHsh  cock,  with  hand  on  breast 
Awaits  the  other's  fond  advance: 
'  Cocorico  !  ' —  he  tries  his  best. 
The  foohsh  cock  with  hand  on  breast! 
He  wins  her,  takes  her  far  away, 
Their  quarrel  ended  that  fair  day: 
The  foolish  cock  with  hand  on  breast  — 
The  other  killed  himself — 'twas  best!  "  ^ 
l^He  sits  down,  overcome.] 

Celina.  Bravo,  Monsieur  Prosper!  That's 
lovely!     You're  a  poet,  too! 

PoujADE.  Very  nice,  but  too  many  repetitions 
for  me.  Where  did  you  come  across  that  rig- 
marole? 

DuMOULlN.  An  Apologue,  isn't  it.  Monsieur 
Prosper?     Who  wrote  it? 

Maxime  [answering  for  Prosper].  An  author 
who  knows  no  more  of  the  laws  of  prosody  than  of 
courtesy. 

Mme.  Cottin.    Your  turn.  Monsieur  Maxime! 

1  As  the  original  is  hardly  poetic  and,  as  Maxime  says,  not 
in  accordance  with  the  laws  of  prosody,  an  approximation  only 
is  attempted   in  the   English   rendering. —  Tr. 

I  II 


FOUR  PLAYS 


l^Poiijade  and  DumoiiUn  go  tip-stage,  and  return 
by  way  of  the  table  by  which  Cot  tin  is  sit- 
ting.] 

Genevieve.     Oh,  yes,  Monsieur  Maximal 

JVIaxime.  I  don't  know  a  thing  about  such 
learned  matters ! 

Mme.  Cottin.  Come  now,  recite  the  Seren- 
ade for  us ! 

GENEVliiVE.     Yes,  the  Serenade,  the  Serenade/ 

Maxime.     Not  that,  it's  too  trivial. 

Genevieve.     No,  we  want  the  Serenade/ 

Maxime  [advancing^.      The  Serenade: 

Cottin  [rising].  I  agree  with  Monsieur 
Champanet;  let's  have  something  else. 

Genevieve.  Why  not?  It's  so  sweet  and 
lovely!     Yes,  the  Serenade! 

Cottin.  Too  sweet  and  lovely  for  these  young 
people.  When  young  girls  are  present,  we  should 
choose  more  modest  subjects! 

Genevieve.  Papa,  you're  wrong,  the  Seren- 
ade — 

Cottin  [severely].  I  am  not  mistaken!  1 
tell  you  once  for  all  I  don't  intend  to  have  any  such 
fdth  around  here!  In  the  presence  of  my  chil- 
dren ! 

[The  ladies  rise.] 

Mme.  Dumoulin  [to  Mine.  Cottin],  My 
dear,  what  is  the  matter  with  your  husband  to- 
day?    He  is  touchy ! 

Mme.  Cottin  [center].  Some  marauders 
have  made  him  angry,  I  suppose.  [Speaking  to 
the  young  people.]  Since  you  are  not  allowed  to 
recite,  children,  you'd  better  go  into  the  drawing- 

I  12 


THE  SERENADE 


room;  there  you  may  sing  and  dance  as  much  as 
you  like ! 

l^The  young  men  offer  their  arms  to  the  ladies. 
Mme.  de  Cottin  chooses  Maxime  ostenta- 
tiously; she  speaks  to  him  in  a  confiding  way, 
and  once  she  kisses  him.  Cottin,  who  sees 
this,  rises,  goes  a  little  way  toward  them,  then 
returns  to  his  place  and  sits  down.] 

DUMOULIN  [continuing  his  conversation  with 
Poujade].     Then  you  use  only  white  bait? 

PoujADE.  If  you'll  come  down  to  my  part  of 
the  country,  I'll  show  you  how  to  fish  ! 

DuMOULiN.  Yes,  I  know,  in  the  Midi  it's 
easy  —  more  fish  than  water,  as  you  say  —  but, 
tell  me  this,  did  any  one  ever  catch  a  fifteen-pound 
pike  in  your  country?  Well,  I  did.  Monsieur,  and 
Boulard,  who's  here  to-night,  can  tell  you  whether 
I'm  telling  the  truth  or  not  —  so  can  Cottin. 

Cottin  [troubled].  Yes,  yes,  that  pike  of 
yours  was  fully  fifteen  pounds. 

DuMOULlN.  It  was  just  before  I  got  to  No- 
gent:  I  was  sitting  under  the  willows,  fishing  with 
a  long  line.  All  at  once  I  saw  an  enormous  fish,  a 
female  full  of  eggs;  it  darted  from  under  the  bank. 
I  said  to  myself,  "  Dumoulin,  you'll  never  get 
her !  "  I  saw  her  trick,  then  I  had  an  idea  —  my 
heart  was  thumping  at  a  great  rate  —  instinct, 
Monsieur  Poujade,  instinct,  it  was! — Well,  I 
took  my  net,  got  down  flat  on  my  stomach  — 

Poujade.     That's  not  fishingl 

Dumoulin.  Wait  a  moment!  Whoop-la! 
I  plunge  the  net  into  the  water  in  the  twinkling  of 
an  eye  and  hold  it  hard  against  the  bank  —  I  got 

113 


FOUR  PLAYS 


the  pike  !  But  that  wasn't  the  end  :  I  had  to  haul 
it  up  the  side  —  it  was  mighty  high  —  ask  Mon- 
sieur Cottin,  he  knows  how  high  it  was! 

CoTTix  [more  and  more  troubled^.  What 
was  high? 

DuMOULiN.  The  bank  where  I  caught  the 
pike. 

Cottin.     Still  talking  about  that  pike? 

DuMOULlN.  Then  I  took  hold  of  the  iron 
frame  of  the  net,  and  leaned  over  as  far  as  I  could 
without  falling,  and  brought  it  slowly  toward  me. 
Half-way  up  I  almost  lost  the  fish  —  nearly  fell 
myself,  too!  —  then  I  haul  again,  and  there's  the 
fish  lying  on  the  bank !  I  threw  my  coat  over  it, 
rolled  it  up,  and  ran  home  with  it.  Fifteen 
pounds  it  weighed!  Cottin  was  there,  he  can  tell 
you  if  I'm  lying! 

Cottin.     That  pike,  yes:  fifteen  pounds. 

PoujADE.  I  know  one  better  than  that :  a  man 
in  our  part  of  the  country  — 

[Madame  Diimoulin  appears  on  the  porcli.~\ 

Mme.  Dumoulin.      Dumoulin,  Dumoulin  ! 

DuMOULlN.  One  minute,  Leocadie,  we're  talk- 
ing important  business! 

Mme.  Dumoulin  [approacli'nuj  iJu-m].  We 
need  you  for  the  Quadrille. 

Dumoulin,     I  don't  know  how  to  dance! 

Mme.  Dumoulin.  No  matter;  you  can  learn, 
it's  not  hard. 

Dumoulin  [m/;/^].  I've  got  to  go,  or  she'll 
never  give  me  a  moment's  peace.  You  can  tell  me 
your  story  afterward. 

[He  goes  o«/.] 

114 


THE  SERENADE 


[During  the  following  conversation,  the  piano 
accompaniment  to   the  Quadrille  is   heard.] 

PoujADE  [to  Cottin,  who  walks  back  and 
forth].  I  can't  make  you  out,  Cottin!  No  use 
getting  mad  about  one  poor  little  pear  you  had 
stolen  from  you,  and  looking  out  of  sorts  all  day 
long!  Are  you  afraid  they'll  steal  something 
else?  Poujade  is  here,  and  I'll  tell  you,  if  one  of 
them  comes  in  my  direction  it'll  be  the  last  time  ! 

Cottin.     You're  a  great  one  to  talk,  Poujade! 

Poujx'\DE  [sarcastically].  I  notice  that  when 
you're  in  a  bad  humor  you  seem  mighty  big  and 
mighty  —  the  way  you  were  just  now.  What's 
the  use,  now?     It's  not  worth  while. 

Cottin.  Not  worth  while?  The  things  they 
did  before  my  daughter! 

Poujade  [rising].  He's  said  the  same  things 
twenty  times  before  you ! 

Cottin.  That  may  be;  perhaps  he  did  use 
to  —  that's  not  to-day  ! 

Poujade.     What  about  to-day,  old  man? 

Cottin  [taking  Poujade' s  arm].  To-day, 
Poujade,  things  are  happening  in  my  family  that 
are  —  terrible  !  There's  an  awful  comedy  being 
played  right  under  my  roof —  I've  seen  it  with  my 
own  eyes.  The  thieves  I  want  to  get  hold  of  are 
not  the  ones  around  the  garden;  they  can  steal  as 
many  pears  as  they  like,  I  don't  care  a  snap ! 
They  [indicating  the  drazving-room]  are  the  ones 
I'm  after!  You  said  I  seemed  mighty  big  and 
strong;  well,  I'm  only  beginning:  I'm  going  to 
see  this  thing  through  — ! 

Poujade.     What?     Who? 

115 


FOUR  PLAYS 


CoTTiN.  Monsieur  Champanet!  Haven't 
you  noticed  anything,  Poujade? 

PoujADE  [evasively].  Nothing!  Well,  that 
is,  you'd  have  to  be  blind  not  to.  For  that  matter, 
your  wife  doesn't  try  to  hide  anything;  she  might 
just  as  well  tell  everybody! 

CoTTiN  \_burstincj  out].  How  she  could  have 
the  audacity,  the  — 

Poujade.  What  audacity  is  there  in  saying 
that  Monsieur  Champanet  is  in  \o\c  with  Gene- 
\ieve?  What  if  he  does  make  love  to  her  —  so 
long  as  he  intends  to  marry  her?  It's  plain 
enough  that's  what  he  wants  to  do.  Ask  Prosper 
what  he  thinks  of  it  all? 

CoTTiN.  What?  Does  my  wife  say  that? 
That's  outrageous  !  It's  only  a  trick  to  hide  some- 
thing else ! 

Poujade  [/rt//^/i/w^].  The  idea!  You  are  in 
a  bad  humor!  You'll  kill  the  lot  of  us  without 
turning  a  hair! 

CoTTiN  \_confidincjly].  I  say,  Poujade,  that 
Champanet  is  Nathalie's  lover!  Now  do  you  un- 
derstand? 

PoujADi:  [smiliiuj'].  Another  of  your  itleas! 
You're  jealous! 

CoTTiN.  You  fool,  I  know  it!  I'm  sure! 
Didn't  you  see  them  kiss  just  now?  Right  in 
front  of  us ! 

Poujade  [surprised].     Nonsense! 

CoTTlN.  I  was  already  suspicious;  I  noticed 
little  signs  between  them,  a  word  or  two  now  and 
then  —  I  was  on  the  lookout.  That  gentleman 
has  always  been  a  little  too  nice;  he's  taking  too 
much  interest  in  Dodo's  education!     I  began  to 

ii6 


THE  SERENADE 


have  doubts.      I  kept  my  eyes  open  to-night  with- 
out saying  anything.      Now  I  have  sure  proof. 

PoujADE.  You're  making  too  much  of  this, 
Cottin;  you're  too  jealous  —  you  only  want  to 
make  sure  of  what  you  suspect.  Why  didn't  you 
ever  suspect  me  of  being  in  love  with  your  wife  ? 

Cottin.  No,  Poujade,  you're  an  honorable 
man;  I'd  never  think  that  of  you.  But  that 
damned  peacock,  with  his  fine  conversation,  I  tell 
you,  Fm  sure  about  him.     Pve  seen! 

Poujade  [seriously].  Then  you  ought  to 
have  killed  him ! 

Cottin  [shrugging  his  shoulders'].  There  you 
are  all  over  again !  Kill  him !  You  don't  kill  a 
man  like  that,  right  off !  Fm  not  a  soldier ;  have  I 
got  the  weapons  ? 

Poujade  [walking  away  from  Cottin].  Kill 
him  any  way!  Use  your  feet,  your  fists  —  knock 
him  over  the  head  with  a  club!  Good  God! 
[Coming  back  to  Cottin.]  What  are  you  going 
to  do? 

Cottin.  Fm  going  to  tell  him  —  what  a  low 
trick  he's  done,  and  then  —  well,  I  won't  allow 
him  around  on  any  pretext.  And  If  I  find  him 
with  my  wife  again  — 

Poujade.     Well? 

Cottin  [gravely].  He'll  have  me  to  deal 
with! 

Poujade,  That  may  do  for  him,  but  how 
about  your  wife — ? 

Cottin  [hesitating].  She  —  that's  a  hard 
question;  I  want  to  punish  her  in  a  way  she  won't 
soon  forget. 

Poujade  [^r;?//y].     Kill  her. 
117 


FOUR  PLAYS 


CoTTlN.  Poujade,  how  can  you  say  that? 
Think! 

Poujade  \_rcturn'nig,  sits  by  the  tahlt'].  The 
moment  you  talk  of  extreme  measures  —  why, 
that's  the  only  thing  to  do!  If  you're  too  weak 
to  do  that,  divorce  her,  old  man,  or  else  — 

CoTTiN  [m/;/^].  Why,  I  can't  do  that! 
Think  of  the  scandal,  and  the  talk !  It  would  ruin 
the  business,  not  to  mention  —  [He  sits  down 
again  on  the  chair,  center. '\ 

[Maxinie  appears  on  the  porch,  cooling  himself 
after  the  dance.  He  goes  toward  the  table 
where  Cot  tin  and  Poujade  are  conversing.] 

Maxime.  Messieurs,  the  ladies  have  asked  me 
to  tell  you  that  they  are  starting  a  game  where  all 
will  be  needed ;  they  want  you  to  come  in  and  be 
banker. 

Poujade  [aside  to  Cottin].  Be  a  man  now; 
this  is  your  chance  ! 

CoTTiN  [aside,  turning  his  back  to  Maxime]. 
Not  now  :  later  ! 

Poujade  [aside  to  Cottin].  No,  now!  It's 
high  time! 

Maxime.     What  shall  I  tell  the  ladies? 

Poujade.  They're  in  no  hurry.  Sit  down  a 
little  while  here :  Cottin  has  a  few  words  to  say  to 
you. 

Maxime.     At  your  service.      [He  sits  down.] 

Poujade.  He  would  like  to  ask  you  a  ques- 
tion. A  friend  of  ours  has  had  trouble  in  his 
family  —  he  learned  that  his  wife  had  a  lover. 

Cottin  [aside  to  Poujade].  Oh,  Poujade,  not 
now! 

Poujade  [aside  to  Cottin].  Leave  it  to  me! 
Ii8 


THE  SERENADE 


[To  Maxime.^  Our  friend  learned  the  truth,  and 
now  he  wants  to  punish  his  wife  and  the  lover  very 
severely.  You  are  a  man  of  experience;  how  was 
adultery  punished  in  ancient  times? 

CoTTiN  [aside  to  Pou']ade~\.  There  you  are, 
using  strong  words ! 

Maxime.  Well,  they  were  primitive  enough  in 
those  days;  sometimes  the  victims  were  drawn  and 
quartered;  some  were  drowned,  some  bound  to  the 
tails  of  horses,  others  were  stripped  and  left  to  die 
out-of-doors.  The  punishments  varied  according 
to  the  development  of  civilization.  Our  civiliza- 
tion, for  instance,  takes  the  attitude  that  in  the  ma- 
jority of  cases  the  husband  is  to  blame;  the  erring 
wife  is  nearly  always  forgiven.  [Cot tin  rises,  and 
walks  about  upstage.^  Before  advising  your 
friend,  I  must  know  something  about  him,  and  finci 
out  how  much  he  is  to  blame. 

PoujADE.  So  you  don't  admit  that  the  hus- 
band has  a  right  to  kill  the  lover? 

Maxime.  Never!  In  good  everyday  French 
that  Is  called  murder.  You  must  judge  these 
things  not  according  to  the  anger  of  the  husband; 
furthermore,  you  can't  do  justice  yourself  in  these 
cases! 

CoTTiN  [who  has  slowly  advanced  tozvard  Max- 
ime^. I  see.  Monsieur  Champanet,  that  you  ad- 
vise mercy;  I  agree  with  you.  My  reasons  are  not 
the  same  as  yours,  but  I  think  we  agree  at  bottom. 

Poujade  [aside  to  Cottin].  Go  on,  give  it  to 
him ! 

ConiN.  Monsieur,  this  evening  as  I  was  in  the 
hallway  up-stairs,  I  saw  a  man  come  out  of  my 
wife's  room. 

119 


FOUR  PLAYS 


PoujADE  [aside  to  Cot  tin].     Go  on  ! 

CoTTiN,  That  man  of  course  was  you:  my 
son's  tutor,  a  friend  of  iny  family,  a  man  in  whom 
1  had  the  greatest  confidence! 

Maxime  [rising].  Why,  Monsieur  Cottin,  I 
don't  see  the  joke  !      You  think  me  capable  — ? 

Cottin.  I  saw  you.  Monsieur.  Even  if  a 
man  is  cowardly  enough  to  deceive  and  outrage  a 
man,  he  ought  at  least  to  ha\e  courage  enough  to 
take  the  responsibility  for  what  he  has  done! 

PoujADE  [iiside  to  Cottin].      Bravo,  Cottin! 

Maxime.     Now,  Monsieur  Cottin,  let  me  — 

Cottin.  No,  Monsieur,  no  explanations! 
You  are  my  wife's  lover !      Deny  it  if  you  dare  ! 

[Maxime  retreats,  bowing.] 

PoujADE  [rising  zvith  clenched  fists].  Oh,  if  I 
only  — ! 

Maxime.  Very  well,  Monsieur  —  I  —  I  ac- 
knowledge it:  I've  abused  your  confidence,  your 
friendship  —  my  life  is  at  your  disposal  — 

Cottin.     What  shall  I  do  about  it? 

Maxime.  Whatever  you  like.  Only  listen  to 
me  first! 

Cottin  [quivering  zvith  anger].  No,  Mon- 
sieur, I  don't  want  to  hear  another  word  from  you; 
you've  lost  the  right  to  speak  in  the  house  that 
you've  dishonored.  I  don't  want  to  hear  you,  or 
see  you;  your  damned  (wic  words  and  your  open 
honest  face  —  they're  all  lies  !  So  you  make  me  a 
present  of  your  life!  Fine  compensation,  isn't  it, 
for  taking  away  what  was  dearest  in  the  world 
to  me !? 

[Dodo  appears  on  the  porch,  and  shouts:] 

DoiX).  Papa,  Monsieur  Poujade,  Monsieur 
1 20 


THE  SERENADE 


Maxime;  Mama  wants  to  know  if  you'll  be  much 
longer?  Everything's  all  ready;  they're  waiting 
for  you ! 

CoTTiN  [betzceen  his  teeth],  I  only  want  to 
hear  that  you  were  for  a  moment  carried  away  — 
you  didn't  know  what  you  were  doing —  that,  that 
the  whole  affair  only  lasted  a  short  while  ! 

Dodo  [stamping  ziitJi  his  feet].  Papa,  they're 
waiting!      Come  right  now! 

[Dodo  skips  back  indoors.] 

CoTTiN  [seriously].  His  life!  If  I  took  it 
would  I  be  any  better  off?  Could  I  ever  forget 
what  I  have  suffered  this  past  week?  And  after 
this  night?  You  can't  understand  what  I  feel  in 
a  case  like  this;  I've  been  honest  and  upright  in 
my  business  all  my  life,  and  now  to  have  my 
wife  —  I  believed  her  so  good,  so  pure  !  —  the 
mother  of  my  children  —  and  this  blackguard! 
To  think  that  my  wife,  whom  I  have  respected  and 
loved  for  twenty-years,  is  no  better  than  a  woman 
of  the  streets ! 

[He  falls  into  a  chair.] 

PoujADE.  Come,  come,  Cottin,  courage ! 
You  need  it  now  more  than  ever ! 

[Mine.  Cottin  descends  the  stairs  from  the 
porch,  and  goes  quickly  to  Cottin.] 

Mme.  Cottin.  Oh,  you  men !  VVhat's  the 
matter?     Afraid  of  thieves  again? 

Maxime  [aside  to  Mme.  Cottin].  Madame, 
Monsieur  Cottin  knows  everything! 

Mme.  Cottin  [aside  to  Maxime].  You  told 
him !  I  thought  you  were  more  of  a  man ! 
You're  a  fool! 

Maxime  [to  Mme.  Cottin].     He  saw  us. 

121 


FOUR  PLAYS 


Mme.  Cottin  [to  Maxiine].  Deny  it  any- 
way ! 

PoujADE  [hesitatingly,  to  Cottin'].  You've 
begun  now,  Cottin,  better  get  it  over  with  at  once ! 

Cottin  [solemnly].  Madame,  eighteen  years 
ago,  Avhen  I  married  you,  you  were  a  young  girl 
who  had  to  worl<.  hard  for  a  living;  you  lived  with 
your  mother  in  a  little  room  in  the  Rue  Vielle-du- 
Temple.  You  were  well  educated,  that's  true,  bet- 
ter than  girls  of  your  position  usually  are,  but  on 
my  side  — 

MiMK.  Cottin  [impatiently].  Yes,  yes,  come 
to  the  point ! 

Cottin.  The  point  is  this,  Madame:  in  re- 
turn for  my  kindness,  my  love  for  you,  my  confi- 
dence in  you,  you  have  deceived  me,  you  have  for- 
gotten your  duties  as  wife,  as  the  mother  of  my 
children  and  — 

Mme.  Cottin.  Continue,  dear,  you're  getting 
very  interesting.  You  might  think  we  were  at  the 
Ambigu."  There's  nothing  funnier  than  to  sec  a 
serious  and  reasonable  man  talking  the  way  you 
are  now. 

Cottin.  Stop  it!  I'll  have  no  more  of  your 
impudence!  I'm  not  myself,  I  tell  you  —  just 
now ! 

Mme.  Cottin  [sarcastically].  You!  Non- 
sense !  When  did  you  change  ?  Now,  Theodore, 
dear  little  Theodore,  don't  use  strong  language 
and  don't  get  angry.  Don't  you  sec  that  people 
have  been  playing  a  joke  on  you,  telling  this  ab- 
surd story?  They've  fooled  you,  because  you're 
a  big  jealous  boy!      Ask  Poujade! 

-A  famous  llicatcr  where  melodramas  used  (o  be  performed. 
122 


THE  SERENADE 


COTTIN  [very  excitedly].  You're  no  better 
than  a  prostitute ! 

Mme.  Cottin.     Sweet  and  flattering ! 

COTTIN.  Don't  I  know  what  I've  seen  with 
my  own  eyes?!  Was  I  mistaken?!  Your  lover 
confessed  to  me.  Did  he  he?  Is  everybody  a 
liar?!  And  now  you  come  along  with  only  your 
word  ?  !  Do  you  think  I'm  going  to  take  this  lying 
down?     Am  I  an  idiot? 

Mme.  Cottin.  Idiot  or  not,  you're  a  fool  to 
believe  everything  that's  told  you,  and  then  invent 
the  rest  yourself! 

Cottin.  I  imagined  the  whole  thing?  I  tell 
you,  I  saw  Monsieur  steal  out  of  your  room  last 
night?     Was  1  crazy? 

Mme.  Cottin.     Last  night? 

Cottin.  Yes,  Madame,  last  night!  At  four 
in  the  morning !      You  know  it  as  well  as  I ! 

PoujADE  [to  himself].  Catch  them  red- 
handed  and  they'd  cry  their  innocence  to  Heaven! 

Mme.  Cottin  [laughing].  Last  night!  I 
swear  by  anything  you  want  that  not  a  single  per- 
son put  foot  in  my  room  last  night! 

Cottin  [ivith  composure].  Madame,  I  can't 
listen  to  any  more  of  this.  I  thought  that  per- 
haps you  were  both  —  forgetful,  for  a  moment  — 
that  you  —  slipped  —  I  should  have  been  glad  to 
have  you  repent.  But  I  see  you're  both  guilticr 
than  I  had  thought. 

Mme.  Cottin.  But,  Theodore,  I  swear 
you're  wrong!  You  must  be  dreaming!  Mon- 
sieur was  not  in  my  room!  [Turning  to  Max- 
ime.]  Why  don't  you  defend  yourself,  Mon- 
sieur? 

123 


FOUR  PLAYS 


Maxime  [embarrassed].  No  matter  what  you 
may  think,  Monsieur,  I  must  really  — 

CoTTiN  [to  Maxiine].  Shut  up!  That's  all 
you  must  really  do  ! 

[Genevieve  cotJies  to  the  drawing-room  ivin- 
dow,  leans  out  of  it,  and  listens.] 

CoTTiN  [to  his  zvife].  Nathalie!  Your  de- 
fense is  useless !  You  can't  have  any  feelings,  for 
your  children  or  your  husband!  To  receive  a 
lover  in  your  room !  A  room  that  even  I  respect, 
a  room  that  connects  with  your  daughter's  room! 

Mme.  Cottin.     Now,  dear,  I  — 

COTTIN.  You  never  thought  that  your  own 
daughter  might  — !  You're  worse  than  the 
w^orst !  You  ought  to  be  this  moment  on  your 
knees,  and  not  try  to  find  new  lies  —  everything 
condemns  you. —  He  was  with  you  yesterday ! 

[Genevieve  leaves  the  window,  closing  it,  and 
disappears  quickly.] 

Mme.  Cottin  [violently].  Do  you  want  to 
know  the  truth,  Theodore,  the  whole  truth? 
Well,  here  it  is,  and  God  pity  you !  Monsieur 
Maxime  is  my  lover,  and  yesterday  is  not  the  first 
time  I've  received  him.  But  —  we've  not  seen 
each  other  for  over  a  week !  So  there !  Isn't 
that  true,  Maxime?  [Maxime  acknowledges  this 
by  a  bow  of  the  head.]      You  see?! 

Cottin  [overcome].  I  don't  care  where  or 
when  —  I  know  more  now  than  I  wanted  to  know 
—  keep  the  other  details!  It's  enough  that  I'm 
positive  you  have  a  lover.  If  you  want  to  parade 
your  shame,  do  it,  but  not  here  !  My  children  are 
not  going  to  have  such  an  example  of  mother-love 
near  them!    Well,  [Authoritatively.]  you're  going 

124 


THE  SERENADE 


to  leave  here  at  once,  both  of  you;  we'll  find  some 
excuse  to  tell  the  others !  Neither  of  you  is  going 
to  set  foot  in  this  house  again.  Only  honest  peo- 
ple have  a  right  here ! 

Mme.  Cottin.     Theodore ! 

Maxime.      Monsieur,  listen  to  me  — 

Cottin.  Haven't  I  the  right  to  kill  them  both, 
Poujade?  I  don't  want  to  have  any  scandal,  I 
tell  you.  So  get  out !  I'm  not  going  to  have  you 
around  here !  Out  with  you  —  into  the  streets, 
anywhere  —  I  don't  care  ! 

\^Mme.  Cottin  goes  upstage;  Max'nne  retreats 
a  few  steps. 

Genevieve  comes  in  and  thrones  herself  at  her 
father's  feet.'\ 

Genevieve.     Papa  !     Forgive  her,  Papa  ! 

Maxime.     Genevieve ! 

Cottin  [to  his  wife'].  Don't  you  want  the 
earth  to  swallow  you  up,  when  you  see  your 
daughter,  your  pure  and  innocent  daughter  ask 
forgiveness  for  you?!  Get  up,  Genevieve  darling, 
your  mother  is  not  worth  kneeling  for.  She  has 
soiled  our  love,  yours  and  mine !  But  you,  you 
are  my  consolation  —  your  father  needs  you  now  ! 

Poujade  [going  to  Cottin].  For  God's  sake, 
man,  brace  up  !      Don't  give  in  now  ! 

Genevieve.  Papa,  please,  don't  accuse 
Mama  —  she's  not  to  blame  — 

Maxime  [advancing  to  Cottin].  Monsieur 
Cottin,  one  word  — 

Cottin.  Silence!  My  dear  child,  things  are 
happening  now  that  you  can't  understand.  I  must 
be  firm  —  leave  me!  Don't  make  it  harder;  go 
back  and  play  your  games. 

125 


FOUR  PLAYS 


Genevieve.  Papa,  Papa !  I  —  I  am  the 
only  one  who  is  to  blame !      Forgive  me! 

CoTTiN.     What's  this? 

Genevieve.  Maxime  —  last  night  —  It  was 
my  room ! 

CoTTlN  \^aftcr  a  paiise^.  Your  —  room?  [//f 
turns  to  Maxime,  zclio  tries  to  get  azi'ay.'\  She 
too!!  You,  God — [//f  siezes  Maxime  by  the 
throat.~\ 

PoujADE.     Choke  him ! 

Genevieve  [holding  bark  her  father,  and  cling- 
ing to  him].  Papa,  don't  kill  him!  He  is  — 
think  of  —  my  —  child  — ! 

[Genevieve  faints.  Cottin  releases  Maxime. 
Poll  jade  goes  to  Genevieve,  placing  her  on  a 
chair.] 

PoujADE.     The  last  straw ! 

Cottin  [cursing  them  all].  Swine!  Pm  go- 
ing !     Swine ! 

[He  goes  out  into  the  garden  and  disappears.] 

PoujADE.  Help!  Help!  Hey  there! 
Fournier,  help  !     Water  ! 

Mme.  Cottin  [going  to  Maxiine].  You  love 
her? 

Maxime  [briefly].     Yes! 

Mme.  Cottin  [repulsing  hiui].     Coward! 

[She  goes  to  Genevieve. 

Friends  and  guests  enter  precipitately  from  the 
house.      DunioiiHn  stops  them  on  the  porch.] 

PoujADE.  Why  do  you  take  so  long?  Pve 
been  waiting  half  an  hour  for  you?  Vinegar! 
Salts!      Brandy!     The  child's  fainted  I 

[The    company    disperses;   some   come    dozen- 
stage  by  Genevieve.] 
126 


THE  SERENADE 


Prosper  \^coming  in  at  the  back].  Made- 
moiselle Genevieve  fainted !  [Furiously,  to 
h[aximc.~\  Monsieur,  you  promised  to  have  an 
explanation  with  me.      I'm  waiting  for  it ! 

Maxime.  [trying  to  rid  himself  of  Prosper]. 
Mademoiselle  Genevieve  will  be  a  mother  in  six 
months  !     Make  love  to  her  now  ! 


[Curtain.] 


127 


ACT  III 

[//  middle-class  dining-room. —  Right,  a 
porcelain  stove;  left,  a  side-board.  A  door  at 
the  back,  and  one  on  each  side  of  the  room. — 
A  niiynber  of  pictures  adorn  the  walls;  there  are 
likewise  plates  hung  from  the  moldings,  exposi- 
tion medals,  shields  and  weapons,  framed  di- 
plomas, etc. —  A  table,  center,  with  places  for 
three.] 

FouRNiER  [alone,  philosophizing].  The  pate, 
omelette,  chicken  —  that  will  be  enough  if  the 
ladies  don't  get  back  from  the  country  —  but  if 
they  do  — !  Oh,  what's  the  odds?  They  won't 
be  vxry  hungry  after  that  affair  yesterday  at  La 
Varenne!     Think  of  it  — ! 

[He  shrugs  his  shoulders  and  goes  about  his  busi- 
ness. 

Enter  Mme.  Cottin  hurriedly,  follozved  by 
Genevieve.     Both  are  in  traveling  attire.] 

Mme.  Cottin  [excitedly].  Where  is  he, 
Fournier?  He  isn't  dead,  is  he,  Fournier?  Tell 
me ! 

Fournier.     No,  Madame,  Monsieur  is  here. 

Mme.  Cottin.  Oh,  how  relieved  I  ami 
Genevieve,  he's  not  dead  !      What's  he  doing? 

Fournier.  Monsieur  has  locked  himself  in 
his  room  since  this  morning. 

Mme.  Cottin.  Who's  looking  after  the  shop  ? 
128 


THE  SERENADE 


FouRNiER.  Monsieur  Poujade  and  his 
nephew.  They're  both  in  a  fearful  humor;  can't 
say  a  word  to  them!  Monsieur  Poujade  insulted 
me  twice  this  morning,  twice  !  I  warn  Madame, 
If  this  continues  I  shan't  stay! 

Mme.  Cottin.  But  have  you  seen  Monsieur 
this  morning? 

FouRNiER.  No,  Madame;  when  Monsieur 
Poujade  and  I  arrived  by  the  first  train,  Monsieur 
was  already  in  his  room. 

[He  goes  up  behind  the  table. ^ 

Mme.  Cottin  \_to  Genevieve'].  What  can  he 
do  now? 

Genevieve  [frightened].  I  don't  know: 
write  ? 

Mme.  Cottin.  He  might  kill  himself  —  hang, 
asphyxiate  himself  —  anything! 

FouRNlER  [reassuringly].  I  don't  think  Mon- 
sieur contemplates  suicide! 

Mme.  Cottin.  Never  mind,  Fournier;  try  to 
find  out  what  he's  doing.  Stop  him,  don't  let  him 
do  any  harm  to  himself! 

Fournier.  Very  well,  Madame,  Fll  keep 
watch. 

[He  goes  out.] 

Mme.  Cottin  [to  Genevieve,  who  sits  down, 
overcome].  Poor  Papa,  poor  Theodore!  My 
poor  child,  what  have  you  done !  How  could  you 
do  such  a  thing,  you  a  child  we  had  so  much  trouble 
to  educate!  We  spared  nothing  for  you,  at  the 
convent,  the  expensive  boarding-school !  You 
were  so  modest !  Every  time  you  heard  a  vulgar 
expression  you  lowered  your  eyes !  And  now  we 
find  that  Mademoiselle  —  so  that's  what  your  — 

129 


FOUR  PLAYS 


Genevieve  [intrepidly].  But,  Mama,  how 
was  I  to  know  — ? 

MiME.  COTTIN  [excitedly].  What  you  didn't 
know !  Haven't  I  told  you  twenty  times  that  you 
should  have  no  secrets  from  your  mother?  That 
when  a  young  man  said  things  to  you  you  should 
let  me  knows  and  in  any  case  never  answer  when  he 
made  declarations  to  you  !  We  never  tired  of  din- 
ning it  into  your  ears  that  all  young  men  try  to  ruin 
young  girls  —  that  you've  got  to  shun  them  like  the 
plague !  You  should  never,  never  believe  their 
oaths  and  promises.  And  then  if  a  young  lady 
happens  to  take  a  fancy  to  a  young  man,  is  that 
any  reason  why — ? 

Genevieve.  No,  Mama,  I  meant  to  say  —  I 
meant  if  I'd  known  you  loved  him  already  — 

Mme.  Cottin.  Since  when  does  a  mother  have 
to  explain  her  actions  to  her  daughter?  And  es- 
pecially in  a  case  like  this?  For  that  matter,  Fm 
not  —  but  think  of  the  awful  situation  for  you! 
How  can  you  hope  to  marry  ?     Who  will  take  you  ? 

Genevieve  [rising].  Maxime!  He's  prom- 
ised ! 

Mme.  Cottin.  Promised!?  [.-Iside.]  He's 
more  underhanded  than  I  thought  him !  'Fhe 
traitor! 

Genevieve  [zvith  grozving  excitement].  Any- 
way, is  there  anything  so  out  of  the  way  in  a  young 
man's  loving  his  fiancee  before  their  marriage? 
So  long  as  they  do  intend  to  get  married?  It  was 
so  exciting  to  have  him  make  love  to  me  in  secret 
—  and  he  was  so  nice  about  it !  I  loved  him  at 
once,  dreamed  about  him,  thought  of  nothing  in  the 
world  but  him  !      One  night,  perhaps  you  remem- 

130 


THE  SERENADE 


ber?  It  was  so  beautiful,  he  recited  the  Serenade  to 
us,  so  sweetly  and  softly,  I  was  in  Heaven!  Then 
he  came  and  whispered  in  my  ear;  I  couldn't  inter- 
rupt him;  he  talked  so  wonderfully!  I  was  his 
from  that  time  on;  he  could  ask  anything  of  me! 
Well,  he  asked  me  to  come  to  his  rooms  the  next 
day  for  my  lesson  —  and  I  went ! 

Mme,  Cottin  [sitting  down,  overcome'}.  The 
monster!  I  suspected  something  of  the  kind,  but 
I  never  thought  he  would  dishonor  you ! 

Genevieve.  There's  nothing  dishonorable  — 
Louise  Bignolet  — 

Mme.  Cottin.     What  about  Louise  Bignolet? 

Genevieve.  She  had  a  baby  before  she  was 
married,  and  Hortense  had  a  —  lover  when  she 
was  still  in  boarding-school.  Get  married  after- 
ward, and  everything's  all  right !  Of  course,  there 
is  a  difference ! 

Mme.  Cottin.     What? 

Genevieve  \_in  an  undertone],  Louise  didn't 
have  a  mother ! 

Mme.  Cottin  [hiding  her  face].  What  a 
curse  !      It's  like  Fate  ! 

Genevieve  \_going  to  her  mother,  tenderly]. 
Mama  — 

Mme.  Cottin  \_rises,  thrusting  Genevieve 
aside].  Don't!  My  dearest  child!  I  hear  some 
one !  It's  probably  your  father !  Run  away, 
Genevieve,  please  leave  us  alone. 

Genevieve.     But,  Mama — ! 

Mme.  Cottin.  Go!  [Genevieve  goes  out.] 
Oh,  God,  give  me  the  strength  to  persuade  him  ! 

[Enter  Maxime  in  great  haste.] 

Maxime.     What's  happened? 
131 


FOUR  PLAYS 


Mme.  Cottin  [^rinin'uig  to  him].  Maxime! 
He'll  kill  you! 

Maxime.  Let  him  kill  me !  I've  already 
given  him  my  life  to  dispose  of! 

Mme.  Cottin.  Maxime,  don't  provoke  him ! 
When  a  quiet  man  like  Theodore  once  loses  his 
head  you  can't  tell  what  he'll  do!  Listen:  so  far 
there's  no  great  harm  done.  Go  away,  hide  your- 
self somewhere;  don't  stay  here! 

Maxime.  But  I've  decided  to  stay!  You 
don't  think  for  a  moment  I  could  live  away  from 
you  two  !      I'm  going  to  stay  ! 

Mme.  Cottin  {supplkatbigly].  If  I'm  noth- 
ing to  you  any  more,  then  for  her  sake,  for  my 
daughter's  sake ! 

Maxime  [touched].  Why  speak  of  Gene- 
vieve ? 

Mme.  Cottin.  You  love  her  —  you  love  her 
more  than  you  do  me,  don't  you? 

Maxime  [hcsitatiny].  Yes,  I  love  her, 
but  it  was  always  you  I  loved  in  her;  I  adored  two 
women  in  one !  Sometimes  she  was  you,  some- 
times you  were  she  —  you  were  both  one  !  She 
was  to  me  the  perfume  of  the  flower,  you  were  the 
fruit!  What  a  dream — !  Now  that  it  has 
flown,  Nathalie,  I  have  only  to  —  die ! 

Mme.  Cottin.     Maxime  —  I  love  you  I 

[Fonrtiicr  opens  the  door  half-zvay.] 

Fournier.  Madame,  Monsieur  Maxime, 
you'd  better  go  into  the  bed-room  or  the  draw- 
ing-room—  hide  yourselves!  Here  comes  Mon- 
sieur ! 

Maxime  \_firvily].  Good,  we'll  have  it  out 
now ! 

132 


THE  SERENADE 


Mme.  Cottin.     Maxime,  please  come ! 

Maxime.      I'm  going  to  stay  ! 

Mme.  Cottin.  For  Genevieve's  sake  —  for 
the  sake  of  the  child,  come ! 

[She  tries  to  drag  him  out.'\ 

Maxime  [resisting^.     No! 

Cottin's  Voice  [outsidel^.  Well,  Fournier, 
to-day  or  to-morrow:  when  you're  ready!  I'll 
wait! 

Fournier  [/o  Cottin'].  I'm  coming.  Mon- 
sieur, I'm  coming.  \_To  Mme.  Cottin  and  Max- 
ime.] You'd  better  make  up  your  minds  —  you 
can  come  back  later  if  you  like.  Just  treat  Mon- 
sieur kindly,  he's  a  good-hearted  man  if  you  handle 
him  right. 

Mme.  Cottin.  Fournier  is  right;  come,  Max- 
ime. 

Maxime  [allowing  Mme.  Cottin  to  take  him 
out  into  the  next  room].     Well  —  if  you  wish  it! 

Cottin's  Voice  [outside].  Fournier,  are  you 
coming  to  help  me  ? ! 

[All  go  out. 

Enter  Cottin  in  his  traveling  clothes;  he  does 
not  wear  his  decoration.^  He  has  valises 
and  blankets.  Fournier  likewise  is  burdened 
with  traveling  paraphernalia.] 

Cottin.  Put  the  valise  there  —  the  cash-box 
over  here  !  Now  go  and  get  the  hat-box  —  Wait 
a  moment,  go  down  to  the  shop  and  tell  Poujade 
to  come  up  here. 

Fournier.  But,  Monsieur,  lunch  isn't  ready 
yet. 

1  Municipal  honorary  titles  are  indicated  by  decorations  worn 
on  the  lapel. 


FOUR  PLAYS 


CoTTiN,     It's  not  for  lunch :  I  want  to  see  him ! 

[Foitrnier  goes  oiit.~\ 

CoTTiN  \^(ilo)ic~\.  Don't  want  to  forget  any- 
thing! \^He  takes  a  note-book  from  his  pockc't.] 
Bills  payable  for  the  week:  2500,  120,  1500; 
there's  enough  in  the  cash-box.  The  Champton- 
nerre  bill  will  be  paid  —  Nathalie  probably  sent 
that!  [Raising  his  head  a  moment.]  God! 
Her  deceit!  And  with  a  little  Latin  teacher! 
And  I  accused  him  of  working  Dodo  too  hard! 
And  to  have  the  whole  lot  fool  mc,  while  I  — 
damned  fool!  [Resuming  his  ealeiilations.] 
All  right  for  bills  payable !  I'll  see  about  send- 
ing a  power  of  attorney  for  the  dissolution  of 
partnership;  advise  Poujade  to  take  his  nephew  as 
partner — Prosper  knows  a  good  bit  about  busi- 
ness !  Poor  fellow,  he  lo\'ed  Nini !  There's  the 
man  she  ought  to  have  married !  They'd  have 
carrieci  on  the  business — ''  Cottin  and  Poujade  "! 
—  they'd  have  made  a  mighty  happy  couple  — 
and  now!  [He  rises.]  Work  and  sweat  your 
life  out  for  your  children!  —  The  house  in  the 
country,  furniture,  they  can  do  what  they  like  with 
them!  I  don't  want  to  hear  about  them  again! 
[Center.]  And  to  have  a  thing  like  this  happen 
to  me,  the  calmest  and  easiest-going  fellow !  in 
me,  the  head  of  a  family  !  Me,  an  honorable  busi- 
ness man!  There's  not  a  person  in  Paris  can  say 
a  word  against  the  firm  !  And  here  I  am  forced 
to  run  away  like  a  bankrupt,  and  hide  myself! 
Oh,  Nathalie,  how  you've  abused  my  confidence, 
my  lo^•c  ! 

[Enter  Poujade.] 

134 


THE  SERENADE 


PoujADE.  What's  the  matter,  old  man,  are 
you  going  away? 

CoTTiN.  Dear  old  Poujade,  yes,  I'm  going 
away.  I've  been  thinking  the  whole  matter  over 
—  I  wandered  about  last  night,  trying  to  decide 
whether  to  jump  into  the  Marne  or  hang  myself  in 
the  Bois  de  Vincennes.  At  sunrise,  I  found  my- 
self in  Paris.  I  was  afraid  and  ashamed  of  my- 
self. I  said  it  would  be  foolish  to  benefit  the 
others  in  that  way,  for  an  honest  man  to  kill  him- 
self and  let  the  true  culprits  live.  I  don't  want  to 
be  around  the  place  where  I've  been  dishonored, 
so  I'm  going  away:  abroad,  to  America.  I  don't 
know  where !  Here's  a  letter  giving  you  final  in- 
structions about  my  affairs.  [He  gives  Poujade 
the  letter.^ 

Poujade  [refusing  to  take  ir].  Why,  it's  im- 
possible ! 

CoTTiN.  My  dear  friend,  I  simply  can't  stand 
all  this;  another  shock  like  yesterday,  and  I'd  go 
crazy.      I'd  much  better  go  away. 

Poujade.  It's  not  so  bad  as  that!  Just  look 
at  it  calmly! 

CoTTiN.  Calmly!  Ha!  What  would  you 
do,  cahnly,  if  you  were  in  my  shoes?! 

Poujade  [hesitating].  In  your  shoes?  First 
I'd  have  killed  everybody,  and  then  considered 
later.  But  as  you  didn't  have  the  strength  of 
character  to  do  that,  it's  —  a  bit  difficult.  Let's 
think  it  over ! 

CoTTiN.  Think  as  much  as  you  like;  the  more 
I  think  of  it,  the  worse  it  seems.  One  of  us  has 
to  go  —  I'll  sacrifice  myself! 

'^3S 


FOUR  PLAYS 


PoujADE.  You  haven't  the  least  idea  what 
you're  thinking  or  talking  about.  Listen  to  me: 
things  aren't  so  bad  as  you  make  them  out.  For 
the  sake  of  your  daughter's  reputation  you've  got 
to  force  the  man  who  ruined  her  to  marry  her  — 
you  have  a  legal  right  to  kill  him !  It's  very 
simple:  marry  them,  forgive  your  daughter,  legit- 
imize the  child,  and  then  kill  the  man  afterward  if 
you  want  to ! 

CoTTlN.  Kill  him!  {^Trying  to  evade  the 
question.^      What  if  she  loves  him? 

PoujADE.     She  wouldn't  love  a  man  like  that ! 

CoTTiN.  She's  a  child,  she  doesn't  know  any- 
thing about  life ! 

PoujADE.  Then  it  doesn't  make  a  bit  of  dif- 
ference one  way  or  the  other.  Now,  about  your 
wife. 

CoTTiN.  Don't  talk  about  her!  She's  dis- 
graced me!      I  don't  want  to  see  her  again! 

PoujADE.      Kill  her ! 

CoTTiN  \^outraged^.  Once  more,  Poujade, 
we're  not  butchers  here.  You  keep  on  telling 
me  to  kill  her!  Arrests!  Scandal!  Gossip! 
Trials!  Have  that  happen  to  a  man  who's  led  a 
decent  and  honorable  life  for  half  a  century! 
No,  no,  not  that!  I  don't  want  to  hear  anything 
more!  You  can  look  after  the  business!  Sell 
it,  make  your  own  terms,  I  don't  care!  [Going 
to  the  door  and  calling.]  Fournier,  bring  my 
baggage!  [To  Poujade,  as  he  extends  his  hand 
to  him.]      Good-by,  old  man! 

PoujADE  [turning  his  back  to  Cot  tin].  I  see 
through  your  trick  —  you  don't  want  to  hear  — 
no!!     You're  leaving  me  your  wife  and  daugh- 

136 


THE  SERENADE 


ter,  your  business,  and  then  tell  me,  "  Fix  it  up  as 
well  as  you  can!  "     What  if  I  went  away,  too? 

CoTTiN.  Can't  you  understand,  the  very  sight 
of  this  place  is  poison  to  me  !  ?  Hurry,  Nathalie 
may  come  in  any  moment !  Now  read  that.  [He 
hands  him  the  letter.^  I'm  going!  \^He  goes  to- 
ward the  door. ^      Fournier!      Fournier! 

[/«  coming  hack,  he  catches  sight  of  his  wife, 
who  has  just  enter ed.~\ 

Mme.  Cottin  [holding  a  handkerchief  to  her 
eyes].     Theodore! 

Cottin  [in  despair].  You  see,  Poujade? 
What  did  I  tell  you? 

Mme.  Cottin  [tearfully].  Theodore,  if  a 
guilty  woman  has  any  right  to  be  heard,  listen  to 
me  —  please  ! ! 

[Cotti)i  tiir)is  around  and  makes  as  if  to  go 
out.] 

Poujade.  Listen  to  what  she  has  to  say,  Cot- 
tin! 

Cottin  [firmly].     Never! 

Mme.  Cottin  [falling  to  her  knees].  Theo- 
dore ! 

Cottin  [with  dignity].  Don't  imagine,  Ma- 
dame, I  am  one  of  those  men  you  can  soften  by 
tears !  Don't  deceive  yourself  by  thinking  I'll  be- 
lieve your  story!  How  do  I  know  you  haven't 
always  been  faithless  to  me  —  since  we  were  mar- 
ried? How  do  I  know  you're  not  acting  a  part 
this  minute?     No,  I  won't  listen! 

Mme.  Cottin.  Theodore,  don't  go  away! 
Do  anything  you  want  to  me;  I'll  bear  it.  I 
know  I  don't  deserve  to  be  forgiven,  you  ought 
to  punish  me  —  if  you  do,  I'll  not  complain.      I'm 

137 


FOUR  PLAYS 


asking  you,  imploring  you,  for  Genevieve's  sake, 
not  mine ! 

CoTTiN  [brutally'].  I  forbid  you  to  mention 
her  name  In  my  presence!  Your  own  daughter 
that  you  gave  to  your  lover ! 

MiME.  COTTIN.      Oh ! 

COTTIN.  I  took  you  to  be  my  faithful  part- 
ner; you  deceived  me.  Therefore  I  have  nothing 
more  to  do  with  you  !  Go  back  to  the  miserable 
life  you  lived  before  I  married  you!  But  Gene- 
vieve Is  my  daughter,  my  own  flesh  and  blood, 
she's  dearest  to  me  of  anything  on  earth  —  and 
you've  ruined  her !  Don't  drag  her  in !  I  won't 
let  you ! 

Mme.  Cottin.  I'm  not  trying  to  drag  her  In! 
It's  just  for  her  happiness ! 

[Enter  Founiier.] 

FouRNiER.      Monsieur  called  me? 

Cottin.     Yes;  take  my  bags  down-stairs. 

PoujADE.  Cottin,  think  It  over!  Don't  do 
anything  rash ! 

Cottin  [to  Poujade].  I'm  going  to  be  firm! 
[To  Foiirmer.~\  Do  what  I  tell  you!  [To 
Mme.  Cottin.]  You  —  say  what  you  have  to 
say,  at  once!      I'm  in  a  hurry! 

[Foiirnier  goes  out.] 

Mme.  Cottin  [rising].  Why  are  you  leav- 
ing ^ 

Cottin.     That's  my  affair !     I  know  what  I'm 

going  to  do. 

Mme.  Cottin.  Then  you're  leaving  us  all ! 
If  you  leave  your  daughter,  what'U  become  of 
her?  Without  any  one  to  look  after  her  —  and 
her  child? 

138 


THE  SERENADE 


CoTTiN.  She  will  have  you !  You've  guided 
her  beautifully  so  far — !  It  will  serve  you 
right ! 

Mme.  Cottin  [after  a  pause].  Genevieve  is 
your  child,  your  own  flesh  and  blood !  Do  you 
want  her  to  be  the  laughing-stock  of  the  whole 
neighborhood?  And  you!  your  daughter,  with 
her  bastard,  do  you  want  her  to  be  driven  to  the 
streets? 

Cottin  [defending  himself].  Of  course  —  I 
don't  want  her  to  be  — 

PoujADE.     Well,  if  you  leave  — 

Cottin  [after  a  pause].  If  I  leave,  that's  no 
reason  why  — 

Mme.  Cottin.  You  don't  want  it  to  be  said, 
Theodore,  that  you,  the  honorable  Monsieur  Cot- 
tin, drove  his  daughter  into  a  shameful  life  —  just 
because  of  his  pride! 

PoujADE  [to  Cottin].  Pure  selfishness,  I  call 
it! 

Cottin  [after  a  pause].     You  think  so? 

PoujADE.  Yes.  Don't  you  see,  Genevieve 
will  still  bear  your  name? 

Mme.  Cottin.  You're  shirking  your  duties  as 
a  father! 

Cottin  [sitting  dozen,  Jiis  hands  pressed  to  his 
forehead].  Tell  me,  then,  advise  me,  what  shall 
I  do? 

Mme.  Cottin.     Marry  them. 

PoujADE.     Think  it  over  afterward. 

Cottin.  Marry  them?  But  what  do  we 
know  of  this  Champanet?  He's  a  teacher,  but 
who  is  he  ?  Where  does  he  come  from  ?  He 
hasn't  a  sou  to  his  name ! 

139 


FOUR  PLAYS 


PoujADE.  You  haven't  got  many  husbands  to 
choose  from ! 

Mme.  Cottin.  Monsieur  Champanet  comes 
from  a  very  good  family;  some  day  he'll  have  a 
noble  name,  and  when  his  uncle  dies  he  comes  in 
for  a  very  respectable  fortune. 

Cottin  \^necirly  convinccd'\.  Yes,  yes,  that's 
all  right.     But  this  man  is  your  lover ! 

Mme.  Cottin.  So  you  want  to  make  a  scan- 
dal? Everybody  knows  now  that  Monsieur 
Champanet  is  Genevieve's  lover.  That  wouldn't 
lead  them  to  suspect  anything  else.  If  you  want 
a  scandal,  very  well,  make  one!  Never  mind 
about  your  daughter  and  family! 

Cottin  [hesitating].  How  about  it,  Poujade, 
d'you  think  I  ought  to  marry  them  off? 

Poujade.  I've  told  you  —  Kill  'em  afterward 
if  you  like. 

Mme.  Cottin  [to  Poujade,  terrified].  Kill 
Maxime?! 

Poujade.  Certainly.  Hasn't  a  husband  the 
legal  right  to  do  that? 

Mme.  Cottin.     But  after  the  marriage? 

Poujade  [aside  to  Mme.  Coiiin].  Between 
you  and  me,  marriage  makes  very  little  differ- 
ence ! 

Mme.  Cottin  [outraged].  Don't  listen  to 
him,  Theodore,  marry  them;  and  then  if  any  one 
has  to  make  a  sacrifice,  let  me!  I'm  to  blame,  her 
mother :  I'll  go  away  —  go  into  a  nunnery  —  and 
die  there  !      [She  cries.] 

Cottin  [after  a  moment's  reflection].  Pou- 
jade, what  do  you  think? 

Poujade.     That's  one  way. 
140 


THE  SERENADE 


CoTTiN  [deciding:,  'nith  determination^. 
Well,  if  everybody  wants  it,  marry  them ! 

Mme.  Cottin  [throzfinff  herself  into  Cot  tin's 
arjns].  Oh,  thank  you!  thank  you!  You're  a 
saint !  [She  kisses  his  hands.  Cottin  rises,  opens 
the  bedroom  door,  and  his  wife  speaks  to  Gene- 
vieve and  Ala.xime.]  Come  here,  children,  thank 
your  father  —  he's  forgiven  you  —  you  can  marry 
now ! 

[Enter  Genevieve  precipitately;  she  throws 
herself  into  her  father's  arms.  Maxime  fol- 
lows her  and  stops  at  some  distance.^ 

Genevieve.  Oh,  Papa,  how  good  you  are  — 
and  how  happy  I  am! 

Cottin  [seriously'\.  Monsieur,  since  you  have 
already  taken  my  daughter,  I  give  her  to  you  as 
your  wife.     She  is  yours!     Take  her  away! 

Maxime  [hesitating^.     I  cannot  accept! 

Cottin  [amazed'].     Why,  please? 

Maxime.     I  —  I  am  not  worthy  of  her. 

Cottin.     You — ? 

Maxime.  I  see  very  plainly  that  you  despise 
me :  you  tell  me  to  "  take  her  away  "  !  When  I'm 
her  husband  you  will  refuse  to  see  her,  you  will  de- 
spise her  because  she  is  my  wife.  For  the  sake  of 
your  family  honor,  give  her  a  husband  she  won't 
have  to  be  ashamed  of! 

Cottin.     But  —  the  child? 

Maxime.  This  is  a  matter  which  concerns  her 
whole  life. 

Cottin  [solemnly].  Luckily  for  us,  we  don't 
hold  the  same  opinions  as  you.  We  have  our 
prejudices,  and  our  old-fashioned  ideas,  and  one 
of  them  is  that  we  insist  on  having  our  children 

141 


FOUR  PLAYS 


recognized  by  the  father.  You're  going  to  marry 
my  daughter  to  make  this  possible  —  as  Poujade 
says  —  I  insist,  I  command!  If  my  daughter  is 
not  happy,  so  much  the  worse  for  her;  it's  all  her 
own  doing.  I  must  confess  that  as  a  son-in-law,  I 
might  do  worse.  And  perhaps  some  day  you'll 
live  down  what  you've  done,  but  — 

Genevieve.  Papa,  we  love  you  so  much! 
We'll  do  anything  — 

COTTIN  [in  an  undertone].  And  what  you've 
done.  Monsieur,  is  —  is  little  better  than  —  in- 
cest! 

Maxime.  You  see,  then.  Monsieur,  this  mar- 
riage is  impossible. 

CoTTiN  [in  great  perplexity].  Yes  —  but 
yet  — 

[Enter  Fournier.] 

CoTTiN  [suddenly  to  Fournier].  What  do 
you  want,  Fournier? 

Fournier.  To  serve  lunch;  it's  twelve 
o'clock. 

CoTTlN.  Leave  us. —  Wait  a  moment,  bring 
up  my  bags,  Fm  not  going  away. 

Fournier  [smiling].  I  never  took  them 
down.      [He  goes  out.] 

CoTTiN  [considering].  Have  them  all  here 
—  in  the  same  house?  With  my  daughter  in  her 
position!  Impossible!  Everybody  would  talk 
about  it!  What  wouldn't  Dumoulin  say,  and  the 
Boulards ! 

Maxime.  We  are  going  to  do  our  best  to  live 
down  the  past,  Monsieur  Cottin  —  there's  no  need 
to  send  any  one  away. 

Cottin  [to  Poujade].     What  do  you  think? 
142 


THE  SERENADE 


PoujADE.  Do  whatever  you  like;  I've  told 
you  what  I  think;  I  wash  my  hands  of  the  whole 
affair. 

CoTTiN.  Genevieve  is  not  so  much  to  blame 
—  I  forgive  her  —  she  didn't  know.  [Indicating 
Maxime.^  Perhaps  I  can  forgive  you  some  day. 
And  to  think  of  the  havoc  you  made  in  my  home, 
with  my — !  [Looking  at  his  wife.]  Nathalie, 
you  are  bound  to  me  by  oaths  —  Maxime  swore 
nothing!  —  my  honor,  the  honor  of  the  family  — 
they  were  in  your  keeping.  A  man  can't  forget 
those  things  soon ! 

PoujADE  [shrugging  his  shoulders].  Why 
not  her  too,  while  you're  at  it ! ! 

CoTTiN.     You  really — ? 

Genevieve  [kissing  her  father].  Dear,  dear 
Papa! 

CoTTiN  [moved].  They're  all  against  me! 
[He  puts  his  hand  over  his  eyes  and  sobs.] 
Nathalie! 

Mme.  Cottin  [kissing  Jiis  hand].  You're 
good !     You're  generous  ! 

PoujADE  [cynically].     I  thought  so  ! 

Cottin  [to  Maxime,  zvho  takes  Genevieve  by 
the  hand].  You  have  a  great  deal  to  answer 
for! 

[Enter  Prosper  hastily.] 

Prosper.  Monsieur,  the  Count  de  Melimbec 
has  come  again  for  his  chronometer.  He  insists 
on  seeing  you  ! 

Cottin  [ivith  resignation].  Tell  him  to  go  to 
the  devil!  To-day  I'm  going  to  be  with  my  fam- 
ily —  my  daughter  is  going  to  be  married.  [Ulth 
a  sigh.] 

143 


FOUR  PLAYS 


Prosper  [zcith  amazemetitl.  Mademoiselle 
Genevieve  — ! 

CoTTiN  [to  Prosper'].  That's  so,  poor  Pros- 
per !  We  forgot  about  you  altogether.  [He 
holds  out  his  hand  to  /i/w.] 

Mme,  CoTTiN.     Dear  Prosper! 

Genevieve.     Poor  Monsieur  Prosper! 

PoujADE  [who  has  gone  to  his  nephew;  aside 
to  him].     Happy  Prosper! 

CoTTiN  [a  little  cheered  up].  Well,  he'll  be 
of  the  family  anyway,  we'll  give  him  cousin  Bou- 
lard,  won't  we?  Cousin  Boulard!  Nice  little 
Celina !      I  think  you'll  hit  it  off  nicely,  you  two ! 

PoujADE  [aside].  Yes,  that's  a  wonderful 
plan,  you  old  — ! 

CoTTiN  [to  Poiijade,  slapping  him  on  the 
shoulder].  You  mountain  bear,  see,  you  don't 
have  to  cut  throats  to  have  things  turn  out  beau- 
tifully! Nobody's  dead.  [Gravely.]  Only  I 
make  one  condition  to  this  marriage  [All  surround 
Cottin]  and  that  is  that  nothing's  to  be  said  about 
it.  We  needn't  have  the  neighborhood  gossip- 
ing! Ah!  [He  puts  his  decoration  hack  in  his 
button-hole.]  Now,  let's  have  lunch,  children! 
Fournier,  three  more  places  and  some  of  our  best 
wine:  we  don't  marry  our  daughters  off  every 
day — !  [Fournier  sets  the  extra  places,  and  the 
company  sits  at  the  table.] 

Mme.  Cottin  [simply,  to  Ma.xime].  Sit  by 
me  —  son-in-law ! 


[Curtain.] 


144 


Francois e'  Luck 

(^La    Chance    de    Francoise) 

A    Comedy    in   One   Act 

By 
GEORGES   DE    PORTO-RICHE 

TRANSLATED     BY 

BARRETT  H.  CLARK 


Presented    for   the    first   time,    in    Paris,    at   the 
Theatre  Libre,  December   lo,   1888. 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED: 

CAST  AT 

Theatre  Libre 

Marcel  Desroches Henri  Mayer 

GuERiN Laury 

Jean Antoine 

Francoise Mmes.  Sigall 

Madeleine    Lucy  Manvel 

CAST  AT 

Gymnase 

Marcel  Desroches Pierre  Achard 

GuERiN M.   Breant 

Jean L.   Debray 

Francoise Mmes.  Julia  Depoix 

Madeleine    Silviac 

CAST  AT 

Comedie-Franqaise 

Marcel  Desroches Le  Bargy 

GuERiN Laroche 

Jean Falconnier 

Francoise Mmes.  Bertiny 

Madeleine    Ludwig 

The  scene  is  Auteuil.     The  time  is  the  present. 


FRANCOISE'  LUCK 

[J  studio.  At  the  hack  is  a  door  opening 
upon  a  garden;  doors  to  the  right  and  left;  also 
a  small  inconspicuous  door  to  the  left.  There 
are  a  few  pictures  on  easels.  The  table  is  Ut- 
tered with  papers,  books,  weapons,  bric-a-brac, 
here  and  there;  chairs  and  sofas.  It  is  eleven 
o'clock  in  the  morning.^ 

Fran(,"OISE  [a  small  woman,  frail,  with  a  mel- 
ancholy look,  at  times  rather  mocking.  As  the 
curtain  rises  she  is  alone.  She  raises  and  lowers 
the  window-blind  from  time  to  time].  A  little 
more  !  There  !  Oh,  the  sunlight !  How  blind- 
ing! [Glancing  at  the  studio  with  an  air  of  sat- 
isfaction.] How  neat  everything  is!  [In  at- 
tempting to  take  something  from  the  table,  she 
knocks  some  papers  to  the  floor.]  Well!  [See- 
ing a  letter,  among  the  papers  which  she  is 
picking  up.~\  A  letter!  From  M.  Guerin  — 
[Reading.]  "  My  dear  friend,  why  do  you  per- 
sist in  keeping  silence?  You  say  very  little  of 
the  imprudent  woman  who  has  dared  to  become 
the  companion  of  the  handsome  Marcel!  Do 
you  recompense  her  for  her  confidence  in  you, 
for  her  courage?  You  are  not  at  all  like  other 
men:  your  frivolity,  if  you  will  permit  the  term, 
your  — "  [Interrupting  herself.]  He  writes  the 
word!  [Continuing.]  "Your  cynicism  makes 
me  tremble  for  you.     Absent  for  a  year!      How 

149 


FOUR  PLAYS 


much  friendship  is  gone  to  waste !  Why  were  we 
thrust  apart  the  moment  you  were  married? 
Why  did  my  wife's  health  make  sunlight  an  abso- 
lute necessity  for  her?  We  are  now  leaving 
Rome;  in  a  month  I'll  drop  in  on  you  at  Au- 
teuil — "  \^Intcrruptbig  herself  again.~\  Very 
soon ! 

[^Marccl  appears  at  the  back.'\ 

"  I  am  very  impatient  to  see  you,  and  very  anx- 
ious to  see  Madame  Dcsroches.  I  wonder 
whether  she  will  take  to  me?  I  hope  she  will. 
Take  care,  you  ruffian,  I  shall  cross-question  her 
carefully,  and  if  I  find  the  slightest  cloud  in  her 
happiness,  her  friend-to-be  will  be  an  angry  man." 
\^She  stops  reading^  and  says  to  herself,  sadly.] 
A  friend  —  I  should  like  that! 

Marcel  [carelessly  dressed.  He  is  of  the 
type  which  usually  appeals  to  women].  Ah,  in- 
quisitive, you  read  my  letters? 

P^RANCOISE.      Oh,  it's  an  old  one  — 

Marcel  [chaffing  her].     From  Guerin? 

Francoise.  I  found  it  there,  when  I  was  put- 
ting the  studio  in  order. 

Marcel  [tenderly].  The  little  romantic  child 
is  looking  for  a  friend? 

Francoise.  I  have  so  much  to  tell,  so  much 
about  my  recent  happiness  ! 

Marcel.     Am  I  not  that  friend? 

Francoise.  You  are  the  man  I  love.  Should 
I  consult  with  you,  when  your  happiness  is  at 
stake? 

Marcel.  Too  deep  for  me!  [Yawning.] 
Oh,  Fm  tired—! 

Francoise.  Did  you  come  in  late  last  night? 
150 


FRANCOISE'  LUCK 


Marcel.     Three  o'clock. 

Francoise.  You  were  quiet  about  it,  you 
naughty  man ! 

Marcel.     Were  you  jealous? 

Francoise.  The  idea !  I  am  morally  certain 
that  you  love  no  one  except  your  wife. 

Marcel  [sadly].  It's  true,  I  love  no  one  ex- 
cept my  wife  — 

Francoise  [chaffing  him  in  turn].  Poor  Mar- 
cel! 

Marcel.  I  was  bored  to  death  at  that  supper; 
I  can't  imagine  why. —  They  all  tell  me  I'm  get- 
ting stout. 

Francoise.  That's  no  reason  why  you 
shouldn't  please. 

Marcel.     God  is  very  unjust. 

Francoise.     So  they  say! 

Marcel  [stretching  out  on  a  sofa].  Excuse 
my  appearance,  won't  you,  Frangoise  ?  [Making/ 
himself  comfortable.]  I  can't  keep  my  eyes  open 
any  longer  nowadays  —  The  days  of  my  youth  — 
Why,  I  was —  [He  stops.] 

Francoise.  You  were  just  the  right  age  for 
marriage. 

Marcel  [as  if  to  banish  the  idea].  Oh!  [A 
pause.]  I'm  sure  you  will  get  along  well  with 
Guerin.  Yours  are  kincired  spirits  —  you're  alike 
—  not  in  looks,  however. 

Francoise.     Morally,  you  mean  ? 

Marcel.  Yes  —  I'm  flattering  him  by  the 
comparison. 

Francoise.  He's  like  this,  then:  sentimental, 
a  good  friend,  and  an  honest  man.  Yes,  I  think 
I  shall  get  along  nicely  with  him. 

151 


FOUR  PLAYS 


Marcel.  What  a  sympathetic  nature  you 
have !  You've  never  seen  him,  and  you  know  him 
already. 

Fran(;oise.     How  long  has  he  been  married? 

Marcel.     He  was  born  married  1 

Francoise.     Tell  me. 

Marcel.     Ten  years,  I  think. 

Francoise.     He's  happy? 

Marcel.     Very. 

Francoise.     What  sort  of  woman  is  she? 

Marcel.     Lively. 

Francoise.     Though  \irtuous? 

Marcel.     So  they  say. 

Francoise.  Then  Madame  Guerin  and  the 
handsome  Martel  —  eh? 

Marcel.     A  friend's  wife? 

Francoise.  It's  very  tempting —  [Marcel 
seems  to  take  this  in  had  spirit;  he  is  about  to  put 
on  his  hat.]     Are  you  going  out? 

Marcel.     I  lunch  at  the  club. 

Francoise.     Very  well. 

Marcel.  Fm  all  —  a  little  nervous;  I  need  a 
breath  of  air. 

Francoise.     Paris  air ! 

Marcel.     Precisely. 

Francoise.     And  your  work — ? 

Marcel.     Fm  not  in  the  mood. 

Francjoise.  There's  only  ten  days  before  the 
Salon :  you'll  never  be  ready. 

Marcel.  What  chance  have  1,  with  my  tal- 
ent? 

FraN(,"OISE.  You  have  a  great  deal  of  talent 
—  it's  recognized  everywhere. 

Marcel.     I  did  have  — 
152 


FRANCOISE'  LUCK 


[J  pause.] 

Francoise.     Will  you  be  home  for  dinner? 

Marcel  [tenderly].  Of  course!  And  don't 
let  any  black  suspicions  get  the  better  of  you :  I'm 
not  lunching  with  anybody  ! 

Francoise.     I  suspect  you  ? ! 

Marcel  [gratefully].  'Til  later,  then!  [A 
pause.  Frankly.]  Of  course,  I  don't  always  go 
where  I  tell  you  Fm  going.  Why  should  I  worry 
you?  But  if  you  think  I  —  do  what  I  ought  not 
to  do,  you  are  mistaken.  Fm  no  longer  a  bach- 
elor, you  know. 

Francoise.     Just  a  trifle,  aren't  you? 

Marcel.  No  jealousy,  dear  !  The  day  of  ad- 
ventures is  dead  and  buried.  Thirty-five  mortal 
years,  scarcity  of  hair,  a  noticeable  rotundity,  and 
married!     Opportunities  are  fewer  now! 

Francoise  [playfully].  Don't  lose  courage, 
your  luck  may  return  —  A  minute  would  suffice. 

Marcel  [mournfully].     I  don't  dare  hope. 

Francoise.  Married!  You  were  never  fated 
to  be  a  proprietor,  you  are  doomed  to  be  a  ten- 
ant. 

Marcel  [as  he  is  about  to  leave,  he  sees  a  tele- 
gram on  the  table].  Oh,  a  telegram,  and  you 
said  nothing  to  me  about  it ! 

Francoise.  I  didn't  see  it.  Jean  must  have 
brought  it  while  you  were  asleep. 

Marcel.  From  Passy!  I  know  that  hand! 
[Aside,  laith  surprise]  Madame  Guerin  — 
Madeleine!  Well!  [Reading.]  "My  dear 
friend,  I  lunch  to-day  with  my  aunt  Madame  de 
Monglat,  at  La  Muette  —  as  I  used  to.  Come 
and  see  me  before  noon,  I  have  serious  things  to 

153 


FOUR  PLAYS 


talk  over  with  you."  [He  slops  reading;  aside, 
much  pleased.^  A  rendezvous  !  And  after  three 
years  !  Poor  Guerin  !  —  No  !  It  wouldn't  be  de- 
cent, now !     No ! 

Francoise  [aside~\.  He  seems  to  be  waking 
up ! 

Marcel  [aside].  They  must  have  returned! 
Franqoise  was  right  —  a  minute  would  suffice ! 
The  dear  girl ! 

FKANroisi:.     No  bad  news? 

^L•\RCEL  [/';/  spile  of  himself].  On  the  con- 
trary ! 

Francoise.     Oh! 

NF'XRCEL  [embarrassed].  It's  from  that  Amer- 
ican woman  who  saw  my  picture  the  other  day 
■ — at  Goupil's,  you  remember?  She  insists  that 
I  give  it  to  her  for  ten  thousand  francs.  I  really 
think  I'll  let  her  have  it.  Nowadays  you  never 
can  tell  — 

Francoise.  I  think  you  would  be  very  wise 
to  sell. 

Marcel  [handing  her  the  telegram].  Don't 
you  believe  me  ? 

Francoise.     Absolutely. 

[Marecl  puts  the  telegram  in  his  pocket.     A 
pause.] 

Marcel  [hesilalinq  before  lie  leaves;  aside]. 
She's  a  darling;  a  perfect  little  darling. 

Francoise.     Then  you're  not  going  out? 

Marcel  [surprised].  Do  you  want  to  send 
me  away? 

Francoise.  If  you're  going  out  to  lunch,  you 
had  better  hurry  —  the  train  leaves  in  a  few  min- 
utes. 

154 


FRANCOISE'  LUCK 


Marcel  [^becoming  suddenly  affectionate^. 
How  can  I  hurry  when  you  are  so  charming? 
You're  adorable  this  morning! 

Francoise.     D'you  think  so? 

[//  pause.] 

Marcel  [aside].  Curious,  but  every  time  I 
have  a  rendezvous,  she's  that  way! 

Francoise.  Good-by,  then;  I've  had  enough 
of  you!  If  you  stay  you'll  upset  all  my  plans. 
Fd  quite  made  up  my  mind  to  be  melancholy  and 
alone.  It's  impossible  to  be  either  gay  or  sad  with 
you !      Run  along! 

Marcel  [taking  off  his  hat,  which  he  had  put 
on  some  moments  before],  I  tell  you  this  is  my 
house,  and  this  my  studio.  Your  house  is  there 
by  the  garden. 

Francoise.  Yes,  it's  only  there  that  you  are 
my  husband. 

Marcel  [contradicting  her].  Oh!  [Re- 
proachfiilly,  and  zvitli  tenderness.]  Tell  me, 
Franqoise,  why  don't  you  ever  want  to  go  out  with 
me? 

Francoise.     You  know  I  don't  like  society. 

Marcel.     I'm  seen  so  much  alone ! 

Francoise.  So  much  the  better  for  you ;  you 
will  be  taken  for  a  bachelor! 

Marcel.  One  might  think  to  hear  you  that 
husband  and  wife  ought  ne\er  to  live  together. 

Francoise.  Perhaps  I  should  see  you  oftener 
if  we  weren't  married  ! 

Marcel.  Isn't  it  a  pleasure  to  you,  Madame, 
to  be  in  the  arms  of  your  husband? 

Francoise.  Isn't  it  likewise  a  pleasure  to  be 
able  to  say,  "  He  is  free,  I  am  not  his  wife,  he 


FOUR  PLAYS 


is  not  my  husband ;  I  am  not  his  duty,  a  millstone 
around  his  neck;  I  am  his  avocation,  his  love?  If 
he  leaves  me,  I  know  he  is  tired  of  me,  but  if  he 
comes  back,  then  I  know  he  loves  me." 

Marcel.     Francoise,  you  are  an  extremist! 

Francoise.     You  think  so? 

Marcel.     You  are! 

Francoise.     And  then — ? 

Marcel.  I  know  your  philosophy  Is  nothing 
but  love.  [J  paiise-l  You  cry  sometimes,  don't 
you?     When  I'm  not  here? 

Francoise.     Just  a  little. 

Marcel.  I  must  make  you  very  unhappy! 
When  you  are  sad,  don't  hide  it  from  me,  Fran- 
coise; one  of  your  tears  would  force  me  to  do  any- 
thing in  the  world  for  you. 

Francoise.     One,  yes!     But,  many — ? 

Marcel.  Don't  make  fun  of  me:  I  am  seri- 
ous. If  I  told  you  that  my  affection  for  you  Is  as 
great  as  yours,  I  — 

Francoise.     You  would  be  lying. 

Marcel.  That  may  be !  But  It  seems  to  me 
I  adore  you !  Every  time  I  leave  you,  I  feel  so 
lonely;  I  wander  about  like  a  lost  soul!  I  think 
that  something  must  be  happening  to  you.  And 
when  I  come  home  at  midnight,  and  open  the  door, 
I  feel  an  exquisite  sensation  —  Is  that  love? 
You  ought  to  know  —  you  are  so  adept ! 

Francoise.     Perhaps. 

Marcel  [unthinkint/ly].  You  know,  Fran- 
coise, one  can  never  be  sure  of  one's  self. 

Francoise.     Of  course! 

Marcel.  No  one  can  say,  "  I  love  to-day,  and 
156 


FRANCOISE'  LUCK 


I  shall  love  to-morrow."  You  no  more  than  any 
one  else. 

Francoise  [offended].     I? 

Marcel.  How  can  you  tell,  whether  in  fif- 
teen years  — ? 

Francoise.  Oh,  Fm  a  little  child  —  I'm  dif- 
ferent from  the  others  —  I  shall  always  love  the 
same  man  all  his  life.  But  go  on,  you  were  say- 
ing—  ? 

Marcel.  Nothing.  I  want  you  to  be  happy, 
in  spite  of  everything  —  no  matter  what  may  hap- 
pen —  no  matter  what  I  may  do. 

Francoise.     Even  if  you  should  deceive  me? 

Marcel  \_tenderly].  Deceive  you?  Never! 
I  care  nothing  about  other  women  !  You  are  hap- 
piness—  not  a  mere  pastime, 

Francoise.     Alas ! 

Marcel.     Why  alas? 

FRANgoiSE.  Because  It  is  easier  to  do  without 
happiness  than  pleasure. 

Marcel  [tenderly].  Oh,  you  are  all  that  is 
highest  and  best  in  my  life  —  I  prefer  you  to 
everything  else !  Let  a  woman  come  between  us, 
and  she  will  have  me  to  deal  with !  Call  it  selfish- 
ness, if  you  will,  or  egotism  —  but  your  peace  of 
mind  is  an  absolute  necessity  to  me ! 

Francoise.  You  need  not  prepare  me  for  the 
future,  you  bad  boy;  I  resigned  myself  to  "  possi- 
bilities "  some  time  ago.  I'm  inexperienced  and 
young  in  years,  but  I'm  older  than  you. 

Marcel.  Shall  I  tell  you  something?  I 
never  deserved  you ! 

Francoise.     That's  true. 

157 


FOUR  PLAYS 


Marcel.  When  I  think  how  happy  you  might 
have  made  some  good  and  worthy  man,  and 
that  — 

Fran^OISE.  Who  then  would  have  made  me 
happy? 

Marcel.     You  are  not  happy  now. 

Fran(,"OISE.  I  didn't  marry  for  happiness;  I 
married  in  order  to  have  you. 

Marcel.  Fm  a  fool!  —  It  would  be  nice, 
wouldn't  it,  if  I  were  an  unfaithful  husband! 

Francoise.      Fm  sure  you  will  never  be  that. 

Marcel.      Do  you  really  think  so? 

FRANgoiSE.  I  am  positive.  What  would  be 
the  use  in  deceiving  me?  I  should  be  so  un- 
happy, and  you  wouldn't  be  a  bit  happier. 

Marcel.     You  are  right. 

Francoise.  No,  you  will  not  deceive  me. 
To  begin  with,  I  have  a  great  deal  of  luck. 

Marcel  [^nily].  Of  course  you  have;  you 
don't  know  how  much ! 

Francoise  [coqneltishly'].     Tell  me  I 

Marcel.     What  a  child  you  are ! 

Francoise.     Fve  run  risks,  haven't  I? 

Marcel.  I  should  think  so  1  Sometimes  I 
imagine  that  my  happiness  does  not  lie  altogether 
in  those  sparkling  eyes  of  yours,  and  I  try  to  fall 
in  love  with  another  woman;  I  get  deeper  and 
deeper  for  a  week  or  two,  and  think  I  am  terri- 
bly infatuated.  But  just  as  I  am  about  to  take 
the  fatal  leap,  I  fail:  Francoise'  luck,  you  see! 
At  bottom,  Fm  a  commencer;  I  can't  imagine  what 
it  is  that  saves  me  —  and  you.  Sometimes  she 
has  done  something  to  displease  me,  sometimes  a 
divine  word  from  your  lips  —  and  a  mere  noth- 

158 


FRAXgOISE'  LUCK 


ing,  something  quite  insignificant!  For  instance, 
Wednesday,  I  missed  the  train,  and  I  came  back 
and  had  dinner  with  you.  You  see,  Francoise' 
luck! 

Francoise.  Then  you're  not  going  out  to- 
day, are  you? 

Marcel.  Nor  to-morrow;  the  whole  day  is 
yours.     We'll  close  the  door ! 

Francoise.     Aren't  you  happy? 

Marcel  [kissing  her  behind  the  ear].  Hurry 
up,  you  lazy  child ! 

Francoise.  Fm  not  pretty,  but  I  have  my 
good  points. 

Marcel.     Not  pretty? 

Fran^'Oise.     No,  but  I  deserve  to  be. 

[Madeleine  appears  at  the  back.^ 

Madeleine.     I  beg  your  pardon! 

\_Fra}icoise  gives  an  exclamation  of  surprise 
and  escapes  through  the  door  to  the  right 
without  looking  a  second  time  at  the  visi- 
tor.] 

Marcel  [surprised].     Madeleine! 

[A  pause.] 

Madeleine  [stylishly  dressed.  With  an  air 
of  bravura].  So  this  is  the  way  you  deceive 
me! 

Marcel  [gaily].  My  dear,  if  you  think  that 
during  these  three  years  — 

Madeleine.  I  beg  your  pardon  for  interrupt- 
ing your  little  tete-a-tcte,  Marcel,  but  your  door 
was  open,  and  I  found  no  servant  to  announce  m.e. 

Marcel.  You  know  you  are  always  welcome 
here. 

Madeleine.     Your  wife  is  very  attractive. 
159 


FOUR  PLAYS 


Marcel.     Isn't  she?     Shall  I  introduce  you? 

Madeleine.     Later  —  I've  come  to  see  yoii. 

Marcel.  I  must  confess  your  visit  is  a  little 
surprising. 

AIadeleine.  Especially  after  my  sending 
that  telegram  this  morning.  I  thought  I  should 
prefer  not  to  trouble  you. 

Marcel  [uncertain].     Ah! 

Madeleine.     Yes. 

Marcel.     Well? 

Madeleine.     Well,  no! 

Marcel.  I'm  sorry.  [Kissing  her  liand.] 
I'm  glad  to  see  you,  at  any  rate. 

Madeleine.     Same  studio  as  always,  eh? 

Marcel.     You  are  still  as  charming  as  ever. 

Madeleine.     You  are  as  handsome  as  ever. 

Marcel.     I  can  say  no  less  for  you. 

Madeleine.     I'm  only  twenty-eight. 

Marcel.  But  your  husband  is  fifty:  that 
keeps  you  young.      How  long  have  you  been  back? 

Madeleine.     A  week. 

Marcel.     And  I  haven't  seen  Guerin  yet ! 

Madeleine.     There's  no  hurry. 

Marcel.     What's  the  matter? 

Madeleine.  He's  a  bit  troubled:  you  know 
how  jealous  he  is!  Well,  yesterday,  when  I  was 
out,  he  went  through  all  my  private  papers  — 

Marcel.  Naturally  he  came  across  some  let- 
ters. 

Madeleine.      The  letters,  my  dear! 

Marcel.     Mine? 

Madeleine.  Yes. —  [Geslnre  from  Marcel] 
Old  letters. 

Marcel.     You  kept  them  ? 
1 60 


FRANgOISE'  LUCK 


Madeleine.     From  a  celebrity?     Of  course! 

Marcel.     The  devil! 

Madeleine.     Ungrateful! 

Marcel.     I  beg  your  pardon  — 

Madeleine.  You  can  Imagine  my  explana- 
tion following  the  discovery.  Nly  dear  Marcel, 
there's  going  to  be  a  divorce. 

Marcel.     A  — !     A  divorce? 

Madeleine.  Don't  pity  me  too  much.  After 
all,  I  shall  be  free  —  almost  happy. 

Marcel.     What  resignation ! 

Madeleine.     Only  — 

Marcel.     Only  what? 

Madeleine.  He  is  going  to  send  you  his  sec- 
onds. 

Marcel  [^aily].  A  duel ?  —  To-day  ?  You're 
not  serious? 

Madeleine.     I  think  he  wants  to  kill  you. 

Marcel.  But  that  was  an  affair  of  three  years 
ago  !     Why,  to  begin  with,  he  hasn't  the  right ! 

Madeleine.     Because  of  the  lapse  of  time? 

Marcel.     Three  years  Is  thj-ee  years. 

Madeleine.  You're  right:  notv  you  are  not 
In  love  with  his  wife:  you  love  your  own.  Time 
has  changed  everything.  Now  your  own  happi- 
ness is  all-sufficient.  I  can  easily  understand  your 
indignation  against  my  husband. 

Marcel.     Oh,  I  — 

Madeleine.  My  husband  Is  slow  but  he's 
sure,  isn't  he? 

Marcel.     You're  cruel,  Madeleine. 

Madeleine.  If  it's  ancient  history  for  you, 
it's  only  too  recent  for  him  ! 

Marcel.     Let's  not  speak  about  him! 
i6i 


FOUR  PLAYS 


Madi:leIx\e.  But  he  should  be  a  very  Inter- 
esting topic  of  con\ersation  just  now! 

Marcel.  1  hadn't  foreseen  his  being  so  cut 
up. 

Madeleine.  You  must  tell  him  how  sorry 
you  are  when  you  see  him. 

Marcel.     At  the  duel? 

Madeleine.     Elsewhere ! 

Marcel.     Where?     Here,  in  my  house? 

Madeleine.  My  dear,  he  may  want  to  tell 
you  what  he  feels. 

[A  p(iHse.'\ 

Marcel  [aside,  troubled^.  The  devil!  — 
And  Francoise?  [Anolhcr  paiise.~\  Oh,  a  duel! 
Well,  I  ought  to  risk  my  life  for  you;  you  have 
done  the  same  thing  for  me  many  times. 

Madeleine.  Oh,  I  was  not  so  careful  as  you 
were  then. 

Marcel.  You  are  not  telling  me  everything, 
Madeleine.  What  put  it  into  your  husband's 
head  to  look  through  your  papers? 

Madeleine.     Ah! 

Marcel.  Well,  evidently  /  couldn't  have  ex- 
cited his  jealousy.  For  a  long  time  he  has  had 
no  reason  to  suspect  me !  Were  they  my  letters 
he  was  looking  for? 

Madeleine.     That  is  my  affair! 

Marcel.  1  hen  1  am  expiating  for  some  one 
else? 

Madeleine.     I'm  afraid  so. 

Marcel.     Perfect! 

Madei-EINE.      Forgive  me ! 

Marcel  [reproachfully].  So  you  are  de- 
ceiving him !  ? 

162 


FRANgOISE'  LUCK 


Madeleine.  You  are  a  perfect  friend  to- 
day! 

Marcel.     Then  you  really  have  a  lover? 

Madeleine.  A  second  lover!  That  would 
be  disgraceful,  wouldn't  it? 

Marcel.  The  first  step  is  the  one  with  the 
worst  consequences. 

Madeleine.     What  are  you  smiling  at? 

Marcel.  Oh,  the  happiness  of  others  — ! 
Well,  let's  have  no  bitterness. 

Madeleine.     No,  you  might  feel  remorse ! 

Marcel.  Oh,  Madeleine,  why  am  I  not  the 
guilty  one  this  time  —  you  are  always  so  beauti- 
ful! 

Madeleine.  Your  fault!  You  should  have 
kept  what  you  had! 

Marcel.      I  thought  you  were  tired  of  me. 

Madeleine.  You  will  never  know  what  I 
suffered;  I  cried  like  an  abandoned  shopgirl! 

Marcel.     Not  for  long,  though? 

Madeleine.  Three  months.  When  I  think 
I  once  loved  you  so  much,  and  here  I  am  before 
you  so  calm  and  indifferent !  You  look  like  any- 
body else  now.  How  funny,  how  disgusting  life 
is!  You  meet  some  one,  do  no  end  of  foolish 
and  wicked  and  mean  things  in  order  to  be- 
long to  him,  and  the  day  comes  when  you  don't 
know  one  another.  Each  takes  his  turn !  I 
think  it  would  have  been  better —  [Gesture  from 
Marcel.]  Yes  —  I  ought  to  try  to  forget  every- 
thing. 

Marcel.  That's  all  buried  in  the  past! 
Wasn't  it  worth  the  trouble,  the  suffering  that  we 
have  to  undergo  now? 

163 


FOUR  PLAYS 


Madeleine.  You  too!  You  have  to  re- 
call—! 

Makcel.  I'm  sorry,  but  I  didn't  begin  this 
conversation  — 

Madeleine.  Never  mind !  It's  all  over,  let's 
say  nothing  more  about  it! 

Marcel.  No,  please!  Let's  —  curse  me, 
Madeleine,  say  anything  you  like  about  me  —  I 
deserve  it  all! 

Madeleine.  Stop !  Behave  yourself,  you 
married  man!      What  if  your  wife  heard  you! 

Marcel.  She?  Dear  child!  She  is  much 
too  afraid  of  what  I  might  say  to  listen. 

Madeleine.  Dear  child!  You  cynic!  I'll 
wager  you  have  not  been  a  model  husband  since 
your  marriage ! 

Marcel.     You  are  mistaken  there,  my  dear. 

Madeleine.     You  are  lying! 

Marcel.  Seriously;  and  I'm  more  surprised 
than  you  at  the  fact  —  but  it's  true. 

Madeleine.     Poor  Marcel! 

Marcel.     I  do  suffer! 

Madeleine.  Then  you  are  a  faithful  hus- 
band? 

Marcel.  I  am  frivolous  and  —  compromis- 
ing —  that  is  all. 

Madeleine.  It's  rather  funny:  you  seem 
somehow  to  be  ready  to  belong  to  some  one ! 

Marcel.  Madeleine,  you  are  the  first  who  has 
come  near  tempting  me. 

Madeleine.     Is  it  possible? 

Marcel.      I  feci  myself  weakening. 

Madeleine.  Thank  you  so  much  for  think- 
164 


FRANCOISE'  LUCK 


ing  of  me,  dear, —  I  appreciate  it  highly,  but  for 
the  time  being,   I'll  —  consider. 

Marcel.     Have  you  made  up  your  mind? 

Madeleine.  We  shall  see  later;  I'll  think  it 
over  —  perhaps!  Yet,  I  rather  doubt  if  — ! 
You  haven't  been  nice  to  me  to-day,  your  open 
honest  face  hasn't  pleased  me  at  all.  Then  you're 
so  carelessly  dressed !  I  don't  think  you're  at  all 
interesting  any  more.     No,  I  hardly  think  so ! 

Marcel.     But,  Madeleine  — 

Madeleine.     Don't  call  me  Madeleine. 

Marcel.  Madame  Guerin !  Madame  Gue- 
rin !  if  I  told  you  how  much  your  telegram  meant 
to  me !  How  excited  I  was !  I  trembled  when  I 
read  it! 

Madeleine.  I'll  warrant  you  read  it  before 
your  wife? 

Marcel.     It  was  so  charming  of  you  ! 

Madeleine.     How  depraved  you  are! 

Marcel.     How  well  you  know  me ! 

Madeleine.     Fool! 

Marcel.     I  adore  you  ! 

Madeleine.  That's  merely  a  notion  of 
yours !  You  imagine  that  since  you  haven't  seen 
me  for  so  long — I've  just  come  back  from  a 
long  trip ! 

Marcel.     Don't  shake  my  faith  in  you ! 

Madeleine.  Think  of  your  duties,  my  dear; 
don't  forget  — 

Marcel.     Of  my  children?     I  have  none. 

Madeleine.     Of  your  wife. 

Marcel  [/«  desperation].  You  always  speak 
of  her! 

165 


FOUR  PLAYS 


Madeleine.  Love  her,  my  friend,  and  if 
my  husband  doesn't  kill  you  to-morrow,  continue 
to  love  her  in  peace  and  quiet.  You  are  made 
for  a  virtuous  life  now  —  any  one  can  see  that. 
I'm  flattering  you  when  I  consider  you  a  libertine. 
You've  been  spoiled  by  too  much  happiness,  that's 
the  trouble  with  you ! 

Marcel  [tfyi>i{j  to  kiss  her].  Madeleine,  if 
you  only  — ! 

Madeleine  \_evadiug  li'nii].  Are  you  out  of 
your  wits? 

Marcel.  Forgive  me:  I  haven't  quite  for- 
gotten— !  Well,  if  I  am  killed  it  will  be  for  a 
good  reason. 

Madeleine.     Poor  dear! 

Marcel.  It  will!  This  duel  is  going  to  com- 
promise you  fearfully.  Come  now,  every  one  will 
accuse  you  to-morrow ;  what  difference  does  it 
make  to  you? 

Madeleine.     I'm  not  in  the  mood! 

Marcel.     Now  yon  are  lying! 

Madeleine.     I  don't  love  you. 

Marcel.     Nonsense!     You're  sulking! 

Madeleine.  How  childish!  Don't  touch 
me!!  You  want  me  to  be  unfaithful  to  every- 
body! Never!  {^Chancjiug.']  Yet — !  No;  it 
would  be  too  foolish !     Good-by ! 

Marcel  \^kissing  her  as  she  tries  to  pass  him~\. 
Not  before  — 

Madeleine.  Oh,  you've  mussed  my  hat; 
how  awkward  of  you!  [Trying  to  escape  from 
Marcel's  emhrace.~\      Let  me  go! 

Marcel  \^']okingly'\.  Let  you  go?  In  a  few 
days! 

1 66 


FRANgOISE'  LUCK 


Madeleine.  Good-by!  My  husband  may 
come  any  moment  — 

Marcel.     Are  you  afraid? 

Madeleine.  Yes,  I'm  afraid  he  might  for- 
give me ! 

Marcel.     One  minute  more ! 

Madeleine.  No!  I  have  just  time  —  I'm 
going  away  this  evening  — 

Marcel.     Going  away? 

Madeleine.     To  London. 

Marcel.     With  —  him,  the  other? 

Madeleine.     I  hope  so. 

Marcel.  Who  knows?  He  may  be  waiting 
this  moment  for  you  at  Madame  de  Montglat's, 
your  aunt's  — 

Madeleine.  They  are  playing  cards  to- 
gether — 

Marcel.  The  way  we  are!  What  a  fam- 
ily! 

Madeleine.     Impudent! 

Marcel.     That's  why  you  came. 

Madeleine  [about  to  leave].  Shall  I  go  out 
through  the  models'  door,  as  I  used  to? 

Marcel.  If  I  were  still  a  bachelor  you 
wouldn't  leave  me  like  this !  You  would  miss 
your  train  this  evening —  I'll  tell  you  that! 

Madeleine.  You  may  very  well  look  at  that 
long  sofa!     No,  no,  my  dear:  not  to-day,  thanks! 

Marcel.  In  an  hour,  then,  at  Madame  de 
Montglat's ! 

Madeleine.  Take  care,  or  I'll  make  you  meet 
your  successor! 

Marcel.  Then  I  can  see  whether  you  are  still 
a  woman  of  taste ! 

167 


FOUR  PLAYS 


Madkleine.  Ah,  men  are  very  —  I'll  say  the 
word  after  I  leave.  \_She  goes  out  through  the 
little  door.'] 

Marcel  [alone'].  "  Men  are  very  — !"  If 
we  were,  the  women  would  have  a  very  stupid  time 
of  it! 

[He  is  about  to  follow  Madeleine.] 

[Enter  FrauQoisc.] 

Francoise.  Who  was  that  stylish  looking 
woman  who  just  left,  Marcel? 

Marcel  [embarrassed],  Madame  Jackson, 
my  American  friend. 

Francoise.     Well? 

Marcel.     My  picture?     Sold! 

Francoise.  Ten  thousand?  Splendid! 
Don't  you  think  so  ?  You  don't  seem  very 
happy! 

Marcel.     The  idea! 

[He  picks  up  his  hat.] 

Fran(;"OISE  [jealously].  Are  you  going  to 
leave  me? 

Marcel.  I  am  just  going  to  Goupil's  and  tell 
him. 

Francoise.  Then  I'll  have  to  lunch  all  by  my- 
self? [Marcel  stops  an  instant  before  the  mir- 
ror.]     You  look  lovely. 

Marcel  [turning  round].     I  — 

FRANgoiSE.     Oh,  you'll  succeed  — ! 

[A  pause.] 

Marcel  [enchanted,  in  spite  of  himself]. 
What  can  you  be  thinking  of!  [Aside.]  What 
if  she  were  after  all  my  happiness?!  [Reproach- 
fully.]     Now  Francoise  — 

Francoise.     I  was  only  joking. 
168 


FRANCOISE'  LUCK 


Marcel  [ready  to  leave].  No  moping,  re- 
member?    I  can't  have  that! 

Fran^oise.     I  know ! 

Marcel  [tenderly.  He  stands  at  the  thresh- 
old. J  side].  Poor  child!  —  Well!  I  may 
fail! 

[He  goes  out,  left.] 

pRANgoiSE  [sadly].  Where  is  he  going? 
Probably  to  a  rendezvous.  Oh,  if  he  is!  Will 
my  luck  fail  me  to-day?  Soon  he'll  come  back 
again,  well  satisfied  with  himself!  I  talk  to  him 
so  much  about  my  resignation,  I  wonder  whether 
he  believes  in  it?  Why  must  I  be  tormented  this 
way  forever? 

[Enter  Jean,  zvith  a  visiting-card  in  his  hand.] 

Jean.     Is  Monsieur  not  here? 

Francoise.     Let  me  see! 

[She  takes  the  card.] 

Jean.     The  gentleman  is  waiting,  Madame. 

Francoise.  Ask  him  to  come  in.  Quick, 
now! 

[Jean  goes  out.] 

[Enter  Guerin,  at  the  back.  As  he  sees  I'^ran- 
coise  he  hesitates  before  coining  to  her.] 

Francoise  [cordially].  Come  in,  Monsieur. 
I  have  never  seen  you,  but  I  know  you  very  well, 
already. 

GuERiN  [a  large,  strong  man,  with  grayish 
hair].  Thank  you,  Madame.  I  thought  I  should 
find  M.  Desroches  at  home.  If  you  will  excuse 
me  — 

Franc^^oise.     I  beg  you  — ! 

GuERiN.      I  fear  I  am  intruding:  it's  so  early. 

Fran^'OISE.  You  intruding  In  Marcel's  home  ?  ! 
169 


FOUR  PLAYS 


GuERiN.      Madame  — 

Francoise.  My  husband  will  return  soon, 
IVIonsieur. 

GuERiN  [briffhteniug].     Ah,  good! 

Francoise.  Will  you  wait  for  him  here  in  the 
studio  ? 

GuERiN  [advancingl.  Really,  Madame,  I 
should  be  very  ungrateful  were  I  to  refuse  your 
kindness. 

P'rancjoise.  Here  are  magazines  and  news- 
papers —  I  shall  ask  to  be  excused.  [Js  she  is 
about  to  leave.^  It  was  rather  difficult  to  make 
you  stay ! 

GuERiN.  Forgive  me,  Madame.  {Aside 
ironically.^  Too  bad  — !  She's  decidedly 
charming! 

{Having  gone  iip-stagc,  Francoise  suddenly  re- 
traces her  steps.] 

Francoise.  It  seems  a  little  strange  to  you. 
Monsieur  —  doesn't  it?  —  to  see  a  woman  in  this 
bachelor  studio  —  quite  at  home? 

GUERIN.      Why,  Madame  — 

Francoise.  Before  leaving  you  alone  — 
which  I  shall  do  in  a  moment  —  you  must  know 
that  there  is  one  woman  who  is  very  glad  to  know 
you  have  returned  to  Paris ! 

GuERiN.     We  just  arrived  this  week. 

Francoise.     Good ! 

GuERiN  {ironically].  It's  so  long  since  I've 
seen  Marcel  — 

Francoise.     Three  years. 

GuERlN.      So  many  things  have  happened  since  ! 

Fran(;0ISE.  You  find  him  a  married  man,  for 
one  thing  — 

170 


FRANgOISE'  LUCK 


GUERIN.      Happily  married! 

Francoise.     Yes,  happily! 

GuERiN.  Dear  old  Marcel !  I'll  be  so  glad  to 
see  him ! 

Francoise.  I  see  you  haven't  forgotten  my 
husband,   Monsieur.     Thank  you  ! 

GuERiN.  How  can  I  help  admiring  so  stout 
and  loyal  a  heart  as  his ! 

Francoise.     You'll  have  to  like  me,  too  ! 

GuERiN.     I  already  do. 

Francoise.  Really?  Then  you  believe  every- 
thing you  write  ? 

GuERiN.     Yes,  Madame. 

Francoise.  Take  care  !  This  morning  I  was 
re-reading  one  of  your  letters,  In  which  you  prom- 
ised me  your  heartiest  support.  [Holding  out  her 
hand  to  him.^      Then  we're  friends,  are  we  not? 

GuERiN  \_after  hesitating  a  ivhile,  takes  her 
hand  in  his^.     Good  friends,  Madame! 

Francoise.     Word  of  honor? 

Guerin.     Word  of  honor! 

Francoise  [sitting^.  Then  Fll  stay.  Sit 
down,  and  let's  talk!  [Guerin  is  uncertain.]  We 
have  so  much  to  say  to  each  other!  Let's  talk 
about  you  first. 

Guerin  [forced  to  sit  dozen].  About  me? 
ButI  — 

Francoise.     Yes,  about  you  ! 

Guerin  [quickly].  No,  about  jo/zr  happiness, 
your  welfare  — ! 

Francoise.     About  my  great  happiness! 

Guerin  [ironically].  Let  us  speak  about  your 
—  existence  —  which  you  are  so  content  with.  I 
must  know  all  the  happiness  of  this  house! 

171 


FOUR  PLAYS 


Francoise.  Happy  people  never  have  any- 
thing to  say. 

GuERiN.     You  never  have  troubles,  I  presume? 

Francoise.     None,  so  far, 

GuERiN.  What  might  happen?  To-day  you 
are  living  peacefully  with  Marcel,  a  man  whose 
marriage  with  you  was  strongly  opposed,  it  seems. 
Life  owes  you  no  more  than  it  has  already  given 
you. 

Francoise.  My  happiness  is  complete.  I 
had  never  imagined  that  the  goodness  of  a  man 
could  make  a  woman  so  happy! 

GuERiN.     The  goodness — ? 

Francoise.     Of  course ! 

GuERlN.     The  love,  you  mean,  Madame ! 

Francoise.     Oh,  Marcel's  love  for  me — 1 

GUERIN.     Something  lacking? 

Francoise.     Oh,  no ! 

Guerin  [interested].  Tell  me.  Am  I  not 
your  friend? 

Francoise.  Seriously,  Monsieur,  you  know 
him  very  well, —  how  could  he  possibly  be  in  love 
with  me?  Is  it  even  possible?  Me  lets  me  love 
him,  and  I  ask  nothing  more. 

Guekin.      Nothing? 

Francoise.  Only  to  be  allowed  to  continue  to 
do  so.  [Gesture  from  Guerin.]  I  am  not  at  all 
like  other  women.  1  don't  ask  for  rights;  but  I 
do  demand  tenderness  and  consideration.  He  is 
free,  I  am  not — I'll  admit  that.  But  I  don't 
mind,  I  only  hope  that  we  may  continue  as  we  are! 

Guekin.  Have  you  some  presentiment,  Ma- 
dame ? 

Francoise.  I  am  afraid.  Monsieur.  My 
172 


FRANCOISE'  LUCK 


happiness  Is  not  of  the  proud,  demonstrative  va- 
riety, it  is  a  kind  of  happiness  that  is  continually 
trembhng  for  its  safety.      If  I  told  you  — 

GuERiN.      Do  tell  me  ! 

Francoise.  Later!  How  I  pity  one  who 
loves  and  has  to  suffer  for  it! 

GVERIN  [surprised].     You — ! 

Francoise.  I  am  on  the  side  of  the  jealous, 
of  the  betrayed  — 

GuERiN  [aside,  and  truly  moved  to  sympathy']. 
Poor  Httle  woman!  [ITith  great  sincerity.] 
Then  you  are  not  sure  of  him? 

Francoise  [growing  more  and  more  excite-d]. 
He  is  Marcel !  Admit  for  a  moment  that  he  loves 
me  to-day  —  I  want  so  to  believe  it !  —  To-mor- 
row will  he  love  me?  Does  he  himself  know 
whether  he  will  love  me  then?  Isn't  he  at  the 
mercy  of  whims,  a  passing  fantasy  —  of  the 
weather,  or  the  appearance  of  the  first  woman  he 
happens  to  meet?  I  am  only  twenty,  and  I  am 
not  always  as  careful  as  I  might  be.  Happiness 
is  so  difiicult ! 

GuERiN.  Yes,  It  is.  [To  himself.]  It  is! 
[To  Francoise.]  Perhaps  you  are  conscientious, 
too  sincere? 

Francoise.  I  feel  that;  yes,  I  think  I  am,  but 
every  time  I  try  to  hide  my  affection  from  him, 
he  becomes  indifferent,  almost  mean  —  as  if  he 
were  glad  to  be  rid  of  some  duty  —  of  being 
good! 

GuERiN.     So  it's  come  to  that! 

Francoise.  You  see.  Marcel  can't  get  used  to 
the  idea  that  his  other  life  is  over,  dead  and 
burled,  that  he's  married  for  good  —  that  he  must 

173 


FOUR  PLAYS 


do  as  others  do.  I  do  my  best  and  tell  him,  but 
my  very  presence  only  reminds  him  of  his  duties 
as  a  husband.  For  instance  [niterrKpting  her- 
self.]     Here  I  am  telling  you  all  this  — 

GuERiN.     Oh!  —  Please! 

Francoise  [with  bitterness].  He  likes  to  go 
out  alone  at  night,  without  me.  He  knows  me 
well  enough  to  understand  that  his  being  away 
makes  me  very  unhappy,  and  as  a  matter  of  form, 
of  common  courtesy,  he  asks  me  whether  I  should 
like  to  go  with  him.  I  try  to  reason  with  myself, 
and  convince  myself  that  he  doesn't  mean  what  he 
says,  but  I  can't  help  feeling  sincerely  happy  when 
once  In  a  while  I  do  accept  his  invitation.  But  the 
moment  we  leave  the  house  I  see  my  mistake. 
Then  he  pretends  to  be  in  high  spirits,  but  I  know 
all  the  time  he  is  merely  acting  a  part;  and  when 
we  come  home  again  he  lets  drop  without  fail  some 
hint  about  his  having  lost  his  liberty,  that  he  took 
me  out  in  a  moment  of  weakness,  that  he  really 
wanted  to  be  alone. 

GuERiN  [^interrupting.']  And  w'hen  he  does 
go  out  alone  — ? 

Francoise.  Then  I  am  most  unhappy;  Fm 
in  torment  for  hours  and  hours.  I  wonder  where 
he  can  be,  and  then  I  fear  he  won't  come  back  at 
all.  When  the  door  opens,  when  I  hear  him  come 
in,  Fm  so  happy  that  I  pay  no  attention  to  what 
he  tells  me.  But  I  made  a  solemn  promise  with 
myself  never  to  give  the  slightest  indication  of 
jealousy.  My  face  is  always  tranquil,  and  what  I 
say  to  him  never  betrays  what  I  feel.  I  never 
knowingly  betray  myself,  but  his  taking  way,  his 
tenderness,  soon  make  me  confess  every  fear;  then 

174 


FRANCOISE'  LUCK 


he  turns  round  and  using  my  own  confessions  as 
weapons,  shows  me  how  wrong  I  am  to  be  so 
afraid  and  suspicious.  And  when  sometimes  I 
say  nothing  to  him,  even  when  he  tries  to  make  me 
confess,  he  punishes  me  most  severely  by  teUing 
me  stories  of  his  affairs,  narrow  escapes,  and  all 
his  temptations.  He  once  told  me  about  an  old 
mistress  of  his,  whom  he  had  just  seen,  a  very 
clever  woman,  who  was  never  jealous  !  Or  else  he 
comes  in  so  late  that  I  have  to  be  glad,  for  if  he 
came  in  later,  it  would  have  been  all  night!  He 
tells  me  he  had  some  splendid  opportunity,  and 
had  to  give  it  up !  A  thousand  things  like  that! 
He  seems  to  delight  In  making  me  suspect  and 
doubt  him ! 

GuERiN.     Poor  little  woman! 

Fran(;'OISE.  That's  my  life;  as  for  my  happi- 
ness, it  exists  from  day  to  day.  [^JVith  an  air  of 
revolt.^  If  I  only  had  the  right  to  he  unhappy! 
But  I  must  always  wear  a  smile,  I  must  be  happy, 
not  only  in  his  presence,  officially,  but  to  the  very 
depths  of  my  soul!  So  that  he  may  deceive  me 
without  the  slightest  feeling  of  remorse!  It  Is 
his  pleasure ! 

\^She  bursts  into  tears.~\ 

GuERiN  \^rising'].     The  selfish  brute! 

Francoise.  Isn't  my  suffering  a  reproach  to 
him? 

GuERiN.  I  pity  you,  Madame,  and  I  think  I 
understand  you  better  than  any  one  else.  I  have 
trouble  not  unlike  your  own;  perhaps  greater,  in- 
consolable troubles. 

Francoise.  If  you  understand  me,  Monsieur, 
advise  me.      I  need  you  ! 

175 


FOUR  PLAYS 


GuERiN  [startled  back  into  rcdlily].  Me, 
your  aid?      I?      [Aside.]      No! 

Francoise.  You  spoke  of  your  friendship. 
The  time  has  come,  prove  that  it  is  real! 

GuERiN.  Madame,  why  did  I  ever  see  you? 
Why  did  I  listen  to  you? 

Francoise.     What  have  you  to  regret? 

GuERiN.     Nothing,  Madame,  nothing. 

Francoise.  Explain  yourself,  Monsieur. 
You  —  you  make  me  afraid! 

Guerin  [tryinc/  to  calm  her  suspicions'\. 
Don't  cry  like  that!  There  is  nothing  to  behave 
that  vi^ay  about !  Your  husband  doesn't  love  you 
as  he  ought,  but  he  does  love  you.  You  are  jeal- 
ous, that's  what's  troubling  you.  And  for  that 
matter,  why  should  he  deceive  you?  That  would 
be  too  unjust  — 

Francoise  [excitedl.  Too  unjust!  You  are 
right,  Monsieur!  No  matter  how  cynical,  how 
blase  a  man  may  be,  isn't  it  his  duty,  his  sacred 
duty  to  say  to  himself,  "  I  have  found  a  good  and 
true  woman  in  this  world  of  deception;  she  is  a 
woman  who  adores  me,  who  is  only  too  ready  to 
invent  any  excuse  for  me!  She  bears  my  name 
and  honors  it;  no  matter  what  I  do,  she  is  always 
true,  of  that  I  am  positive.  I  am  always  fore- 
most in  her  thoughts,  and  1  shall  be  her  only  love." 
When  a  man  can  say  all  that.  Monsieur,  isn't  that 
real,  true  happiness? 

Guerin  [sobhingl.     Yes  —  that  is  happiness! 

Francoise.     You    are    crying!      [/I    pause.'] 

Guerin.     My  wife  —  deceived  me! 

Francoise.     Oh! — [//     pause.]     Marcel  — 

Guerin.  Your  happiness  is  in  no  danger! 
176 


FRANgOISE'  LUCK 


Yesterday  I  found  some  old  letters,  in  a  desk  — 
old  letters  —  that  was  all !  You  weren't  his  wife 
at  the  time.      It's  all  ancient  history. 

Fran^oise  [aside].     Who  knows? 

GuERiN,  Forgive  me,  Madame;  your  troubles 
make  me  think  of  my  own.  When  you  told  of  the 
happiness  you  can  still  give,  I  couldn't  help  think- 
ing of  what  I  had  lost! 

Francoise.  So  you  have  come  to  get  my  hus- 
band to  light  a  duel  with  you  ? 

GUERIN.      Madame  — 

FRANgoiSE.  You  are  going  to  fight  him  ?  An- 
swer me. 

GUERIN.      My  life  is  a  wreck  now  —  I  must  — 

Francoise.  I  don't  ask  you  to  forget;  Mon- 
sieur — 

GuERiN.     Don't  you  think  I  have  a  right — ? 

Francoise.     Stop ! 

GuERlN.  No,  then;  I  shall  not  try  to  kill  him. 
You  love  him  too  much !  1  couldn't  do  it  now ! 
In  striking  him  I  should  be  injuring  you,  and  you 
don't  deserve  to  suffer;  you  have  betrayed  no  one! 
The  happiness  you  have  just  taught  me  to  know 
is  as  sacred  and  inviolable  as  my  honor,  my  un- 
happiness.      I  shall  not  seek  revenge. 

FraN(^oise  [gratefully].     Oh,  Monsieur. 

GUERIN.  I  am  willing  he  should  live,  because 
he  is  so  dear,  so  necessary  to  you.  Keep  him.  If 
he  wants  to  spoil  your  happiness,  his  be  the  blame ! 
I  shall  not  do  it!  It  would  be  sacrilege!  Good- 
by,  Madame,  good-by. 

[Giier'ui  goes  out,  hack,  Francoise  falls  into  a 
chair,  sobbing.] 

[Enter  Marcel  by  the  little  door.] 
177 


FOUR  PLAYS 


Marcel  [aside,  with  a  melancholy  air^.  Re- 
fused to  see  me ! 

Francoisk  {distantly^.     Oh,  It's  you! 

Marcel  [^ood-humoredly].  Yes,  it's  I.  [A 
pause.  He  goes  toward  her.~\  You  have  been 
crying!  Have  you  seen  Guerin?  He's  been 
here ! 

Francoise.     Marcel  — 

Marcel.     Did  he  dare  tell  you  — ! 

Francoise.     You  won't  see  any  more  of  him. 

Marcel  [astounded].  He's  not  going  to 
fight? 

Francoise.     He  refuses. 

Marcel.     Thank  you ! 

Francoise.  I  took  good  care  of  your  dignity, 
you  may  be  sure  of  that.  Here  we  were  together; 
I  told  him  the  story  of  my  life  during  the  last  year 
( —  how  I  loved  you  —  and  then  he  broke  down. — 
When  I  learned  the  truth,  he  said  he  would  go 
away  for  the  sake  of  my  happiness. 

Marcel.  I  was  a  coward  to  deceive  that 
man !  —  Is  this  a  final  sentence  that  you  pass  on 
me? 

Francoise.     Marcel ! 

Marcel.  Both  of  you  are  big!  You  have  big 
hearts!      I  admire  you  both  more  than  I  can  say. 

Francoise  [incredulously].  Where  are  you 
going ?     To  get  him  to  light  with  you  ? 

Marcel  [returning  to  her;  angrily].  How 
can  I,  now?  After  what  you  have  done,  it  would 
be  absurd.  Why  the  devil  did  you  have  to  mix 
yourself  up  in  something  that  didn't  concern  you? 
I  was  only  looking  for  a  chance  to  fight  that  duel! 

178 


FRANCOISE'  LUCK 


Francoise.     Looking  for  a  chance? 

Marcel.     Oh,  I  — 

Francoise.     Why? 

Marcel  [between  his  teeth].  That's  my  af- 
fair! Everybody  has  his  enemies  —  his  insults 
to  avenge.  It  was  a  very  good  thing  that  that 
gentleman  didn't  happen  across  my  path! 

Francoise.  How  can  you  dare  to  recall  what 
he  has  been  generous  enough  to  forget? 

Marcel.  How  do  you  know  that  I  haven't  a 
special  reason  for  fighting  this  duel?  A  legitimate 
reason,  that  must  be  concealed  from  you  ? 

Francoise.  You  are  mistaken,  dear :  I  guess 
that  reason  perfectly. 

Marcel.     Really? 

Fran(^^oise.     I  know  it. 

Marcel  [bursting  forth].  Oh!  Good!! 
You  haven't  always  been  so  frightfully  profound ! 

Francoise.  Yes,  I  have,  and  your  irony  only 
proves  that  I  have  not  been  so  much  mistaken  in 
what  I  have  felt  by  intuition. 

Marcel.     Ah,  marriage! 

Francoise.     Ah,  duty ! 

Marcel.     I  love  Madame  Guerin,  don't  I? 

Francoise.     I  don't  say  that. 

Marcel.     You  think  it. 

Francoise.  And  if  I  do?  Would  it  be  a 
crime  to  think  it?  You  once  loved  her  —  perhaps 
you  have  seen  her  again,  not  very  long  ago.  Do  I 
know  where  you  go  ?     You  never  tell  me. 

Marcel.     I  tell  you  too  much ! 

Francoise.     I  think  you  do. 

Marcel.     You're  jealous ! 
179 


FOUR  PLAYS 


Francoise.  Common,  if  you  like.  Come,  you 
must  admit,  Marcel,  Madame  Guerin  has  some- 
thing to  do  with  your  excitement  now? 

Marcel.  Very  well  then,  I  love  her,  I  adore 
her !     Are  you  satisfied  now  ? 

Fran^^oise.  You  should  have  told  me  that  at 
first,  my  dear;  I  should  never  have  tried  to  keep 
you  away  from  her. 

[^Slw  breaks  into  Icars.^ 

Marcel.  She's  crying!  God,  there's  my  lib- 
erty ! 

Francoise  [bitterly].  Your  liberty?  I  did 
not  suffer  when  I  promised  you  your  liberty. 

Marcel.     That  was  your  "  resignation  "  ! 

Francoise.  You  knew  life,  I  did  not.  You 
ought  never  to  have  accepted  it ! 

Marcel.     You're  like  all  the  rest! 

Francoise  [inore  excited].  Doesn't  unhappi- 
ness  level  us  all  ? 

Marcel.     I  see  it  does! 

Francoise.  What  can  you  ask  for  them? 
So  long  as  you  have  no  great  happiness  like  mine 
you  are  ready  enough  to  make  any  sacrifice,  but 
when  once  you  have  it,  you  never  resign  yourself 
to  losing  it. 

Marcel.     That's  just  the  difficulty. 

Fran(J0ISE.  Be  a  little  patient,  dear:  I  have 
not  yet  reached  that  state  of  cynicism  and  subtlety 
which  you  seem  to  want  in  your  wife  —  I  thought 
I  came  near  to  your  ideal  once !  Perhaps  there's 
some  hope  for  me  yet:  I  have  promised  myself 
that  I  should  do  my  best  to  satisfy  your  ideal. 

Marcel  [juoved].     I  don't  ask  that. 

Francoise.  You  are  right,  I  am  very  fool- 
i8o 


FRANCOISE'  LUCK 


ish  to  try  to  struggle.  What  will  be  the  good? 
It  will  suffice  when  I  have  lost  the  dearest  creature 
to  me  on  earth  —  through  my  foolishness,  my 
blunders ! 

Marcel.     The  dearest  creature — ? 

Francoise.  I  can't  help  it  if  he  seems  so  to 
me ! 

Marcel  [disarmed].  You  —  you're  trying 
to  appeal  to  my  vanity ! 

Francoise.  I  am  hardly  in  the  mood  for  jok- 
ing. 

Marcel  [tenderly,  as  he  falls  at  her  feet]. 
But  you  make  me  say  things  like  that  —  I  don't 
know  what  — !  I  am  not  bad  —  really  bad! 
No,  I  have  not  deceived  you  !  I  love  you,  and 
only  you!  You!!  You  know  that,  Francoise! 
Ask  —  ask  any  woman  ! !     All  women  ! 

[//  pause.] 

Francoise  [smiling  through  her  tears].  Best 
of  husbands!  You're  not  going  out  then?  You'll 
stay? 

Marcel  [in  Francoise' s  arms].  Can  I  go 
now,  now  that  I'm  here?  You  are  so  pretty  that 
I  — 

Francoise.     Not  when  I'm  in  trouble. 

Marcel.     Don't  cry ! 

Francoise.     I  forgive  you ! 

Marcel.  Wait,  I  haven't  confessed  every- 
thing. 

Francoise.     Not  another  word ! 

Marcel.     I  want  to  be  sincere ! 

Francoise.     I  prefer  to  have  you  lie  to  me! 

Marcel.  First,  read  this  telegram  —  the  one 
I  received  this  morning. 

i8i 


FOUR  PLAYS 


Fran^oise  [surprised].  From  Madame 
Guerin? 

Marcel.  You  saw  her  not  long  ago.  Yes, 
she  calmly  told  me  — 

Francoise.  That  her  husband  had  found 
some  letters! 

Marcel.  And  that  she  was  about  to  leave  for 
England  with  her  lover. 

Francoise.     Then  she  is  quite  consoled? 

Marcel.     Perfectly. 

Francoise.  Poor  Marcel!  And  you  went  to 
see  her  and  try  to  prevent  her  going  away  with 
him? 

Marcel.  My  foolishness  was  well  punished. 
She  wouldn't  receive  me. 

Francoise.  Then  I  am  the  only  one  left  who 
loves  you?     How  happy  I  am! 

Marcel.  I'll  kill  that  love  some  day  with  my 
ridiculous  affairs! 

Francoise  [^ravclyl.     I  defy  you! 

Marcel  [playfully].  Then  1  no  longer  have 
the  right  to  provoke  Monsieur  Guerin?     Now? 

Francoise  [gaily]-  You  are  growing  old, 
Lovelace,  his  wife  has  deceived  you! 

Marcel  [lovingly].  Frangoise'  luck! 
[Sadly.]     Married! 


[Curtain.] 


182 


The  Dupe 

(La  Dupe) 

A   Comedy  in   Five   Acts 

By 
GEORGES  ANCEY 

TRANSLATED     BY 

BARRETT  II.  CLARK 


Produced  for  the  first  time,  at  the  Theatre  Libre, 
21    December,    1891. 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED: 

ORIGINAL    CAST 

Albert M.  Antoine 

Madame  Viot Miles.  Barny 

Adele     Henriot 

Marie    Dulac 

The  scene  is  the  drawing-room  in  an  apartment 
at  Paris.     The  time  is  the  present. 


THE  DUPE 

ACT  I 

[Mme.  Viot  and  Marie  are  on  the  stage  as 
the  curtain  rises.^ 

Mme.  Viot.  And  what  If  she  is  unwilling? 
You  know  she  is  hard  to  handle. 

Marie.  If  she  is  unwilling,  then  she  must  be 
severely  talked  to.  She's  refused  five  or  six  very 
favorable  chances!  And  now  here  is  this  nice- 
looking,  wealthy  young  man  of  good  family  —  it 
would  be  very,  very  foolish  to  let  him  escape  — 
perhaps  very  Imprudent.  Adele  has  300,000 
francs'  dowry,  I  know,  but  she's  twenty-three  al- 
ready; It's  time  she  was  married! 

Mme.  Viot.  My  dear  child,  you  are  abso- 
lutely right. 

Marie.  You  must  admit  that  when  it  was  a 
question  Oif  finding  me  a  husband  I  didn't  give  you 
so  much  trouble. 

Mme.  Viot.  You  certainly  didn't.  You  be- 
haved beautifully ! 

Marie.  And  yet,  it  Isn't  very  hard  to  see  that 
you  prefer  my  sister  to  me.  You  don't  dare  scold 
her. 

Mme.  Viot.  I?  Oh,  Marie,  I  do  everything 
for  you !  Your  father  always  used  to  say  to  me : 
"  Madame  Viot,"  he  said,  "  you  love  Marie  bet- 

187 


FOUR  PLAYS 


ter  than  Adele."  Only  the  other  day,  in  that  busi- 
ness about  the  will  — 

Marie.     You're  not  going  to  blame  me  — ? 

Mme.  Viot.  No,  you  dear  child,  and  I'm  only 
too  happy  when  I  can  do  something  for  you.  1  do 
everything  in  my  power,  and  sometimes  I'm  even 
unjust  to  Adele.  I  know  she  wouldn't  like  the 
way  I  favored  you,  and  if  she  knew  that  the  day  I 
die  — 

Marie.  Don't  talk  about  it !  But  then,  you 
see,  Adele  doesn't  care  about  those  things:  money 
is  nothing  to  her.  You  have  no  reason  to  feel 
sorry  for  her. 

Mme.  Viot.  I  don't.  Now  what  shall  I  say 
to  Adele? 

Marie.  /  don't  know,  you  can  think  of  some- 
thing. Tell  her,  for  instance,  that  M.  Bonnet  is 
really  a  wonderful  match.  Then  add  that  you  de- 
sire nothing  better  than  her  happiness,  that  that 
is  your  sole  reason  for  existence  —  tell  her  your 
love  for  her !  We  always  say  that  to  children 
when  we  want  them  to  do  something. 

Mme.  Viot.  Good.  I'll  follow  your  advice, 
as  I  always  do.  You  have  so  much  common  sense 
—  you  see  things  so  clearly! 

Marie.  Only  remember  not  to  drag  me  in;  I 
love  Adele  immensely.  I  don't  want  any  of  the 
responsibility  in  this  affair. 

Mme.  Viot.  Well,  you  were  the  first,  after 
all,  to  mention  this  possible  marriage,  and  per- 
suaded me  to  do  what  I've  done.  It  must  suc- 
ceed !      But  not  long  ago  — 

Marie.  Oh,  l\Iama,  you're  quite  mistaken. 
I  simply  advised  you  to  consider  M.  Bonnet.     You 

i88 


THE  DUPE 


know,  he's  acquainted  with  my  husband;  his  fam- 
ily may  be  able  to  help  Gustave  a  little  in  a  busi- 
ness way.  I  said  this  marriage  would  be  a  good 
stroke  for  us  all.  I  said  that  it  had  to  be.  Out- 
side that,  I  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  case.  I  al- 
ways wanted  to  remain  neutral,  and  neutral  shall 
I  remain.  I  know  nothing,  and  I  don't  want  to 
know  anything.  And  to  prove  it,  I  again  advise 
you  to  act  according  to  your  own  ideas.  Above 
all,  don't  imagine  that  I  waited  until  you  had  al- 
ready decided !  —  For  you  haze  decided,  haven't 
you?  — 

Mme.  Viot.     Yes  — 

Marie.  No,  I  don't  want  to  know!  Now, 
think  well;  it  will  be  a  big  responsibility  on  your 
part  —  giving  Adele  a  husband  she  doesn't  care 
for.  Look  well  into  it  all,  and  forget  me:  I 
don't  count.  Adele  is  the  only  one  who  really 
counts.  Dear  Adele!  If  I  were  you,  I'd  hesi- 
tate a  long  time. —  M.  Bonnet  — !  M.  Bon- 
net— ! 

Mme.  Viot.  Of  course,  you're  not  forcing  me 
to  decide !  But  really  I  want  it.  It  is  a  necessity. 
I  want  it  in  spite  of  you. 

Marie.  Mama,  there  is  only  one  thing  I 
really  care  about  on  earth :  that  you  should  love  us 
both.  I  believe  that  my  sole  reason  for  existing 
is  for  your  sake. 

Mme.  Viot.     Dear  child  ! 

Marie.  Come  now.  Tell  Adele  to  come 
here.  Tell  her,  too,  all  I  told  you  to  tell 
her. 

Mme.  Viot  [calling] — Adele — ! 

[Enter  Adele.] 

189 


FOUR  PLAYS 


[  To  Adele.^  Look  at  me  —  your  face  —  Yes, 
you  look  nice.  Fix  your  curls,  there!  Turn 
round.     Good. 

Marie.     Charming. 

Adele.     What's  this,  Mama? 

Mme.  Viot.  You  ought  to  know.  M.  Bon- 
net, whom  you've  seen  once  or  twice,  has  asked  for 
your  hand  in  marriage.  He's  coming,  and  you're 
to  give  us  all  your  answer, 

Adele.     Who  is  this  M.  Bonnet? 

Mme.  Viot.  You  know  very  well :  that  young 
man  who  danced  with  you  at  the  Marcellins'. 

Adele.      I  don't  remember  him. 

Mme.  Viot.  No  matter.  Only  keep  this  one 
thing  well  in  mind :  my  heart  is  set  on  this  mar- 
riage, which  will  be  of  great  advantage  to  us  all. 
Just  remember  that,  and  be  as  nice  as  you  can  to 
him.  He's  coming  to  make  us  a  visit,  just  as  if  it 
were  an  ordinary  call.  Talk  with  him,  and  be- 
have sensibly. 

Adele.     Very  well.  Mama. 

Marie.     Dear  sister! 

Mme.  Viot.  There's  the  bell !  It's  he !  Oh, 
his  name  is  Albert. 

[Enter  Albert  Bonnet.^ 

Ah,  M.  Bonnet!  Adele,  bring  a  chair  —  I 
hope  you  are  well,  Monsieur? 

Albert.  Very  well,  Madame,  and  you?  — 
[To  Marie. '\  How  are  you,  Madame?  Is  M. 
Chesneau  well? 

Marie.     Perfectly,  thank  you, 

Albert.     Mademoiselle! 

Adele.     Monsieur! 

Albert.  I  beg  your  pardon,  Madame,  for 
190 


THE  DUPE 


coming  so  early,  but  I'm  so  busy  now;  I  have  a 
great  many  important  and  pressing  matters  on 
hand  —  I  can  scarcely  find  an  hour  to  myself  all 
day  long.  But  I  so  wanted  to  thank  you  for  the 
invitation  you  sent  me  not  long  ago  for  that  dance 
at  the  Marcellins',  and  I  thought  I  should  take  ad- 
vantage of  a  leisure  moment  —  and  perform  a  — 
duty  —  which  Is  at  the  same  time  —  a  —  pleasure 
—  yes,  indeed  —  a  —  pleasure.  I  have  no  hesi- 
tation in  employing  that  expression;  It  Is  even  a 
trifle  feeble  to  express  what  I  feel.  It  falls  far 
short  of  the  truth  —  I  assure  you.  For  —  w'ith 
the  exception  of  M.  Chesneau,  I  have  the  good 
fortune  of  finding  all  the  family  together. 

Mme.  Viot.  Too  good  of  you !  We  are 
really  delighted  to  see  you ! 

Marie.  Certainly!  \_To  /ldele.'\  Say  some- 
thing ! 

Adele  [to  Marie].     What?      [J  pause.] 

Mme.  Viot.  And  —  Your  father  Is  quite 
well? 

Albert.  Yes,  Madame,  fortunately  —  in 
spite  of  this  extraordinary  cold  weather.  I  won- 
der if  It  will  continue? 

Mme.  Viot.     Oh,  we  certainly  hope  not. 

Marie.  A  little  rain  will  doubtless  bring 
milder  weather. 

Albert.  But  It's  very  disagreeable  now; 
streets  dirty,  sidewalks  all  slushy  —  are  they  not. 
Mademoiselle? 

Adele.  Oh,  of  course.  Monsieur!  [They 
laugh.     A  pause.] 

Mme.  Viot.  And  —  your  mother  Is  In  good 
health? 

191 


FOUR  PLAYS 


Albert.  Oh,  always  about  the  same.  We 
don't  dare  hope  to  have  her  with  us  much 
longer. 

Marie.     Really?     [J  pause.'] 

Mme.  Viot.  And  your  uncle  Is  not  too 
troubled  with  his  gout? 

Albert.  I'm  afraid  he  is.  This  weather,  you 
know  — ! 

Mme.  Viot.  Fortunately,  your  aunt  is  able  to 
take  good  care  of  him.  What  a  splendid  woman 
your  aunt  is ! 

Albert.     Oh,  yes.      [A  pause.'] 

Marie.  Our  family  is  very  lucky.  Not  one 
of  us  troubled  with  gout.  We  all  have  fine  consti- 
tutions: my  mother,  myself,  my  sister  —  haven't 
you,  Adele? 

Adele.  Oh,  yes,  I'm  always  well.  [^They 
laugh  again.] 

Albert.  I  see.  Mademoiselle  has  delicious 
coloring  —  usually  the  sign  of  a  robust  constitu- 
tion. 

Mme.  Viot.  She  is  a  great  favorite  with  us,  as 
well  she  might  be.  I  can  truly  say  that  she  has 
been  well  brought  up  according  to  all  the  good 
principles  of  the  family.  You  know,  she  speaks 
three  languages,  almost  as  well  as  her  mother- 
tongue  :  English,  Italian,  and  —  and  —  Ger- 
man.    German  is  so  difficult,  you  know — ! 

Marie.     I  never  could  learn  it! 

Albert.  A  splendid  thing,  if  Mademoiselle 
ever  marries  a  business  man.  We  find  very  few 
people  in  our  employ  who  know  that  lan- 
guage. 

Mme.  Viot.  Indeed!  And  then,  she  plays 
192 


THE  DUPE 

the  piano  very  nicely.  Won't  you  play  us  a  little 
something,  and  show  M.  Albert — ? 

Albert.  Ah,  Mademoiselle,  if  you  would  be 
so  good !      I  hardly  dared  ask  — 

Adele.  You  are  too  good,  Monsieur,  but  I 
really  don't  know  anything  to  play.  [She  gig- 
gle s.\ 

Mme.  Viot.  We  mustn't  torment  her.  But 
her  favorite  art,  the  one  in  which  she  shows  most 
talent,  is  painting  — 

Marie.  My  sister  does  some  very  good  porce- 
lain work. 

Albert.  Really?  Might  I  see  some- 
thing—  ? 

Mi\iE.  Viot.  Dearie,  show  Monsieur  that 
plate  you  are  just  finishing. 

Albert.     I  beg  you  ! 

Adele  [who  has  gone  to  get  the  plate'] .     Here  ! 

Albert.     How  pretty,  how  pretty! 

Mme.  Viot.     Not  half  bad ! 

Albert.     That  little  Cupid,  up  there  — ! 

Mme.  Viot.  You  might  almost  think  it  was 
going  to  fly  away ! 

Albert.  And  he  does,  Madame  —  he  does, 
—  very  ingenious  !  —  He's  flying  to  pluck  a  rose  ! 
So  poetic!     So  graceful! 

Mme.  Viot.     Yes,  she's  a  very  fair  amateur. 

Albert.  Amateur?  This  Is  not  the  work  of 
an  amateur,  Madame.  This  is  the  work  of  an 
artist! 

Marie.  Isn't  sister  going  to  exhibit  It  at  the 
Salon? 

Albert.     I  was  just  going  to  suggest  that! 

Mme.  Viot.     You  are  too  good! 

193 


FOUR  PLAYS 


Albert.  I  say  merely  what  I  think.  You 
know,  I  felt  all  along,  before  I  came  here,  that 
Mademoiselle  was  different  from  other  young 
ladies  —  the  kind  you  meet  at  social  gatherings. 
We  danced  together  at  the  Marcellins' — only  too 
little,  for  Mademoiselle  Adele  dances  perfectly. 
We  spoke  about  travel,  did  we  not? 

Adele.     Yes,       I  remember.      [She       laughs 

Albert.  That  affair  was  very  delightful. 
And  I  can  say,  without  appearing  to  exaggerate, 
that  your  presence  there  went  far  to  make  it  so. 
Mademoiselle  Adele  is  so  charming,  so  amiable, 
so  refined,  so  —  let  us  be  frank  —  so  pretty,  that 
to  her  alone  was  due  the  pleasure  of  that  soiree. 
What  cleverness,  and  good  sense !  And  her 
power  of  expressing  things,  her  manner  of  speech 
and  carriage  !  And  that  air  of  distinction  —  gets 
it  from  her  family  —  Mademoiselle  comes  of  good 
stock,  assuredly!  Distinction  is  a  rara  avis  in 
these  days,  too.  It  is  all  the  more  charming  in 
Mademoiselle,  as  it  is  allied  with  a  wonderfully 
equal  temper  and  good  humor  — 

Mme.  ViOT.     Monsieur  — ! 

Albert.  Of  course!  I  repeat:  distinction  of 
bearing,  in  her  manner  of  dressing.  Mile.  Adele 
is  perfection  in  everything!  As  for  myself,  Ma- 
dame, I  have  occasion  to  meet  many  people  in  so- 
ciety, and  for  as  long  as  I  can  remember,  I  have 
never  met,  among  all  the  young  ladies  with  whom 
I  have  danced,  a  single  one  with  the  charming  sim- 
plicity of  Mademoiselle. —  But,  I  beg  you,  stop 
me  —  I  shall  never  end  this  talk.     And  yet:  one 

194 


THE  DUPE 


word  more.     It's  about  that  pretty  dress  she  wore 
that  evening  at  the  Marcellins'. 

MiME.  ViOT.      Do  you  notice  such  things,  then? 

Albert.  I  should  think  so!  And  how  well 
she  wore  it!  There  are  so  many  people  who 
haven't  the  slightest  idea  how  to  wear  clothes. 
The  same  criticism  certainly  cannot  be  made  in 
her  case;  I  shall  never  forget  that  pink  dress  — 

Mme.  Viot.     It  wasn't  pink  ! 

Albert.  Of  course !  I  was  confusing  It  with 
that  of  the  lady  next  to  her.      It  was  blue  1 

Mme.  Viot.     No  —  gray ! 

Albert.  Yes,  gray!  In  the  artificial  light, 
you  know  — ! 

\_A  pause  of  embarrassment.] 

Marie.  It's  only  natural,  you  know,  that  we 
should  be  well  dressed :  we  have  a  first-rate  mo- 
diste. 

Albert.  Oh,  the  modiste  isn't  everyt-hing. 
[They  laugh.~\  Well,  now,  I  must  be  going,  Ma- 
dame. I  am  very  sorry  to  have  to  leave  you  so 
abruptly,  but  business  is  business!  I  have  an  Im- 
portant engagement.  Aladame !  Madame ! 
Mademoiselle!      [Albert  goes  o///.] 

Mme.  Viot  [to  Marie'].     Charming,  Isn't  he? 

Marie.     Not  half  bad. 

Mme.  Viot  [to  A  dele].     What  do  you  think? 

Adele.     Well,  Mama,  M.  Bonnet  — 

Mme.  Viot.  Well,  what?  M.  Bonnet — ? 
Can't  you  say  something  else? 

Adele  [bursting  into  tears].  I  —  I  don't  like 
him. 

Mme.  \"iot.     I'here  you  are  crying! 
195 


FOUR  PLAYS 


Adele.  Please,  please,  Mama,  not  that  man! 
I  haven't  even  talked  with  him,  I  have  hardly  seen 
him  — 

Mme.  Viot.  It  is  not  necessary  to  talk  with 
a  young  man  before  you're  engaged  to  him. 

Adele.  That  may  be,  but  I  don't  love  him. 
There's  something  about  him  that  revolts  me. 
He's  not  at  all  good-looking,  and  he's  nearly 
bald  — 

Mme.  Viot.  Well,  if  you're  so  particular 
about  those  things  — ! 

Adei.k.  Remember  what  you  used  to  say  to 
me:  to  be  happy  in  marriage  you  must  have  a  hus- 
band you  love  and  who  loves  you. 

Mme.  Viot.  Who  says  M.  Bonnet  doesn't  love 
you?  If  he  wants  to  marry  you,  you  must  be  at- 
tractive to  him ! 

Adele.  Or  else  I  must  be  a  good  business 
proposition ! 

Mme.  Viot.  Who  taught  you  to  reason  like 
that?     You're  talking  nonsense.     At  your  age — I 

Marie.     Mama,  Pvlama,  the  poor  dear  child! 

Adele.  You  needn't  think  I've  arrived  at  the 
age  of  twenty-three  without  doing  some  thinking. 
I  have  noticed  so  many  of  my  girl  friends  and  their 
marriages  — 

Marie  [to  Mme.  Fiot].     Insist! 

Mme.  Viot.  You've  been  very  badly  brought 
up,  that's  all.  Now,  about  M.  Bonnet:  you  know 
your  confessor  recommended  him  strongly.  And 
when  the  Abbe  Porel  says  something,  you  can  take 
his  word  for  it. 

Marie  [to  /J dele].  Do  you  mean  to  say  he 
doesn't  know  what  he's  talking  about? 

196 


THE  DUPE 


Mme.  Viot.  And  think  how  well  he  knows 
you!  He  baptized  you,  was  with  you  when  you 
went  to  First  Communion,  and  helped  you  with 
your  Catechism.  It  would  be  very  strange  if  he 
didn't  know  you  through  and  through.  He  told 
me  that  you  and  M.  Bonnet  were  made  for  one  an- 
other, and  after  making  inquiries  about  him,  ^I 
agree  with  the  Abbe.  M.  Bonnet  is  thirty,  he  is 
very  charming,  a  good  business  man,  intelligent, 
and  religious.  He  is  the  director  of  a  fire^  insur- 
ance company.  The  Central,  I  believe.  He  is  very 
easy  to  get  along  with.  If  you  go  about  it  care- 
fully, you  can  lead  him  by  the  nose.  He  brings 
a  very  neat  little  dowry,  and  has  great  promise  for 
the  future.  You  might  look  a  long  time  to  find  a 
better  family  than  his :  his  father  was  a  judge,  and 
his  mother  has  a  brother  whose  wife  is  the  daugh- 
ter of  a  judge  of  the  Commercial  Tribunal;  the 
maternal  grandfather  of  M.  Bonnet's  father  was 
the  second  husband  of  the  daughter  by  his  second 
marriage  of  the  celebrated  lawyer,  Rigault.  They 
are  a  splendid  family:  amiable,  gracious,  and  well 
educated.  The  other  day  I  was  talking  with  M. 
Bonnet,  your  future  great-uncle.  I  never  saw  so 
delightful  a  man.  He  talked  for  a  whole  hour  — 
I  couldn't  get  a  word  in  edgewise. —  Well,  I  have 
set  my  heart  on  this  marriage,  because  It  is  certain 
to  make  a  number  of  very  pleasant  connections 
for  every  one  of  us.  So,  we  are  agreed,  aren't 
we? 

Marie  [to  her  mother'].     Good! 

Adele.      But  I  don't  love  M.  Bonnet! 

Marie.     Poor  child ! 

Mme.  Viot.  A  nice  answer!  When  you  get 
197 


FOUR  PLAYS 


a  good  chance  you  must  take  it.  Love  comes  aft- 
erward. 

Adele.  But  I  have  everything  I  need  right 
here,  Mama.  I  am  perfectly  happy  as  I  am.  I'd 
be  wiUing  never  to  marry,  if  I  could  always  be  with 
you! 

Mme.  Viot.     And  never  marry?! 

Adele.  I'm  happy.  I  do  as  I  like.  Why  not 
wait,  then?  I  can't  bear  the  thought  of  leaving 
my  home,  and  you  —  all  that  I've  loved.  To 
think  of  leaving  —  my  own  room,  that  I've  fixed 
up  so  prettily !  That  may  all  seem  foolish  to  you, 
but  I'm  —  sentimental  —  you  yourself  say  1  am  I 
When  you  live  a  long  while  in  one  place,  you  get 
to  love  it,  and  when  the  time  comes  to  leave,  you 
feel  that  you're  leaving  part  of  yourself  there ! 
I'd  regret  even  our  little  walks  together,  and  our 
visits.  I  didn't  mind  if  they  were  a  little  tiresome. 
I'd  feel  very,  very  sorry  not  to  hear  old  Rosalie 
scold  me  in  the  morning,  telling  me  it  was  time  to 
get  up. 

Mme.  Viot.  But  you  see,  as  soon  as  you 
marry,  I've  decided  to  move.  I'm  going  to  let 
you  have  this  apartment  and  all  the  furniture. 
I'm  going  to  live  opposite  here,  just  above  your 
sister. 

Adele.     That  isn't  the  same  thing  at  all! 

Marie.     How  affectionate  of  her! 

Mme.  Viot.  Now  stop  this  childishness!  I'm 
getting  old,  my  dear.  You  can  never  tell  who's 
going  to  die  and  who's  going  to  live  on.  I  don't 
want  to  risk  not  doing  all  my  duty  before  I  go  — 
my  whole  duty.  lo  look  after  a  little  girl  of  your 
age  is  a  great  responsibility,  and  I  want  to  get  rid 

198 


THE  DUPE 

of  it.  You  may  think  it's  easy  watching  you  from 
day  to  day!  I'm  losing  what  little  leisure  time  I 
have  to  myself  before  I  die.  We  have  to  see  you 
around  in  society,  inquire  about  all  the  young  men 
you  dance  with !  I'm  thoroughly  tired  of  the 
whole  business  !  Always  on  the  lookout  for  a  hus- 
band for  you.  Advice,  gossip,  everywhere  —  all 
your  friends  want  you  to  marry !  I'm  tired  too  of 
getting  all  dressed  up  two  and  three  times  a  week, 
climbing  into  a  carriage  late  at  night,  and  sitting 
out  long  dances,  and  coming  home,  sick  and  tired, 
at  six  in  the  morning ! 

Adele.  Oh,  Mama,  we're  never  later  than 
one ! 

Mme.  Viot.     What? 

Adele.    Never. 

Mme,  Viot.  At  any  rate,  I'm  ready  to  move 
now.  The  landlord  is  increasing  the  rent;  our 
lease  expires  in  April.  In  our  new  apartment 
there'll  be  no  room  for  you.  If  you  aren't  mar- 
ried by  the  last  of  March  —  at  the  latest  —  here 
I'll  be  with  an  apartment  beyond  my  means  on  my 
hands.  And  it'll  be  your  fault  if  I  have  to  pay  a 
hundred  francs  a  term  extra  ! 

Adele.     You  can  afford  it  ten  times  over. 

Mme.  Viot.  No,  I  can't  afford  it.  And  I 
don't  want  you  to  say  I  can.  I'd  arranged  to  fix 
up  the  new  place  and  at  last  begin  to  economize. 
Not  long  ago  I  saw  a  nice  parlor  set  of  furniture 
that  would  fit  in  beautifully  —  red  plush  — 

Adele.     How  ugly! 

Mme.  Viot.  Perhaps  it  is,  but  it's  cheap. 
Now  run  along.  Here's  another  bargain  I'm  go- 
ing to   lose,   and   it's  your  fault.     Funny  —  you 

199 


FOUR  PLAYS 


really  are  a  bother!  After  all  I've  done  for  you, 
I  expected  you  would  be  a  little  nice  to  me,  more 
devoted  — ! 

Adele.     But,  I  — 

Marie  [to  her  mother'\.     Come  to  the  point. 

MiME.  ViOT  [v'wlcutly^.  I'm  done  with  you! 
I  shan't  argue  another  minute.  You  are  going  to 
marry  — 

Adele.     Mama ! 

Mme.  Viot.  You  are  going  to  marry  him  I 
You'll  thank,  me  afterward.  Don't  say  another 
word,  now  —  if  you're  going  to  cry,  go  and  cry 
in  your  own  room.  We  know  better  than  you 
what  sort  of  husband  you  need, —  The  idea  ! 

Marie.     Poor  dear! 

Adele  [aside  to  Marie~\.  Thank  you  for  de- 
fending me ! 

Marie.  I  understand  how  you  feel!  [Adele 
goes  out.^ 

Mme.  Viot.     Thank  you  for  helping  me ! 

Marie.     You  were  perfectly  right. 

Mme.  Viot.  Well,  that's  over.  What  a  stub- 
born child  she  is!  How  different  you  girls  are! 
You're  so  good ! 

Marie.  Remember  whom  I'm  named  after: 
the  Virgin  Mary ! 

Mme.  Viot.     You're  worthy  the  name. 

Marie.  Let's  hope  the  marriage  will  be  a 
happy  one ! 

Mme.  Viot.  No  matter  what  happens,  I  know 
I  have  done  my  duty ! 

[Curtain.] 

200 


ACT  II 

[The  scene  is  the  same.     A  dele  and  Albert 
are  on  the  stage  as  the  curtain  rises.~\ 

Adele.     Then  you're  going  out? 

Albert.  Yes,  sweetheart,  I  must  go  to  the  of- 
fice. 

Adele.  Just  five  minutes  more  !  That's  a  nice 
sort  of  office  to  have,  where  you  must  go  at  night! 
Just  five  minutes,  dear. 

Albert.     Well,  five  minutes  —  no  longer. 

Adele.  You  good  boy !  Sit  down  there  now, 
and  don't  move,  while  I  have  a  good  long  look  at 
you. 

Albert.  Child!  You  might  think  we  were 
married  only  yesterday! 

Adele.  Dearest,  we  haven't  been  for  so  long, 
you  know  — !  Hardly  a  year.  We  can  still  love 
each  other  and  not  seem  foolish,  can't  \ve? 

Albert.     Certainly,  certainly. 

Adele.  And  I  do  love  you  —  how  I  love  you ! 
—  funny,  isn't  it? 

Albert.     Funny?     That  you  love  me? 

Adele.     Yes. 

Albert.     I  think  you  are  a  little  —  oli? 

Adele.  That's  what  you  can't  understand  — 
you  don't  know —       [She  laughs.'] 

Albert.     Why  — ! 

20I 


FOUR  PLAYS 


Adele.  You're  so  ridiculous  when  you're  sur- 
prised. Look  that  way  again  —  once  more, 
please  !     Now  I'll  tell  you  everything. 

Albert.     Tell  me  — 

Adele.  It's  funny  that  I  love  you  now,  because 
I  didn't  use  to  — 

Albert.     When? 

Adele,  Before  we  were  married  —  I  couldn't 
see  anything  in  you. 

Albert.     Indeed? 

Adele.     Are  you  angry? 

Albert.     Of  course  not ! 

Adele.  I'll  never  forget  the  day  you  came  to 
pay  a  visit  to  Mama,  and  meet  me.  How  I  nearly 
died  laughing  to  myself —  and  crying,  too,  because 
I  knew  well  enough  that  I  had  to  marry  you. — 
You  don't  hold  that  against  me,  do  you? 

Albert.  Not  in  the  least  —  I  think  it's  very 
amusing. 

Adele.  You  made  an  awful  impression  on  me, 
with  your  bald  head  —  oh,  awful!  Then  you 
seemed  so  embarrassed  with  that  gold-headed  cane 
of  yours !  And  what  a  time  you  had  making  com- 
pliments to  me !  And  what  compliments  they 
were!  "Mademoiselle,  you  paint  superbly!  — 
Mademoiselle,  you  dance  beautifully!  "  And  my 
dress,  the  one  I  wore  to  the  Marcellins',  the  one 
you  perfectly  remembered!  And  Mama  asked 
you  what  color  it  was,  and  then  you  forgot ! 
What  a  slip !  How  you  amused  me,  and  how  I 
laughed!  Your  answering  that  it  was  pink,  and 
then  blue!  Right  now,  I'll  wager  you  don't  know 
what  color  it  was  !      Just  tell  me,  and  let's  see  1 

Albert.     Well,  it  zcas  blue  ! 
202 


THE  DUPE 


Adele  \^laughi)ig  loudly].  No!  Gray! 
Maker  of  compliments  whether  they're  true  or 
not! 

Albert.     Of  course,  it  was  gray. 

Adele.     Now    you    remember.     Gray,    gray. 


gray 


Albert.     Of  course. 

Adele.  Then  after  that  great  success  of  yours, 
you  thought  it  was  time  you  put  an  end  to  your 
visit,  you  imagined  I  had  had  sufficient  oppor- 
tunity to  observe  your  charms,  your  conversational 
qualities.  Then  you  got  up,  looking  as  though 
you  were  afraid  that  perhaps  you  hadn't  been  quite 
as  brilliant  as  you  had  hoped  to  be.  And  then  you 
left,  very  ceremoniously.  My  dear,  if  you  thought 
for  one  instant  that  that  day,  when  you  put  your 
gold-headed  cane  in  the  umbrella-rack,  you  had 
made  the  conquest  of  my  affections,  you  were  mis- 
taken. Just  after  you  went.  Mama  told  me  I  was 
to  marry  you,  so  that  she  could  move  at  once. 
Here  she  had  to  pay  too  much  rent !  What  a  rea- 
son! 

Albert.     Your  mother  is  a  funny  one ! 

Adele.  Then  I  cried  —  cried  like  a  Mag- 
dalen! I  even  kept  it  up  till  the  day  of  my  mar- 
riage; even  after,  I  had  to  have  a  little  time  to 
become  accustomed,  to  console  myself. 

Albert.     But  now  you  love  me? 

Adele.     Do  I  ? ! 

Albert.     And  how  did  it  happen? 

Adele.  One  evening,  last  summer,  at 
Mama's,  in  the  country.  It  was  four  months 
after  our  marriage.  Up  to  that  time,  I  was  in  a 
whirlpool  of  thoughts  and  sensations  —  I  couldn't 

203 


FOUR  PLAYS 


really  collect  myself.  The  first  days,  I  didn't 
know  where  I  was :  I  was  angry,  all  cut  up  —  I 
must  have  seemed  queer  to  you?  But  I  couldn't 
help  it.  Everything  seemed  so  new  and  so  dis- 
gusting. Yet  one  evening,  you  said  something  to 
me,  and  It  kept  ringing  in  my  ears.  It  seems  per- 
haps very  commonplace,  but  you  called  me  "  Dear- 
est,"—  so  nicely,  so  sweetly,  that  —  well  —  I 
can't  explain !  Then  Mama  and  I  left  for  the 
country,  where  you  came  nearly  every  night,  from 
Paris.  7  hen  I  felt  so  queer :  when  you  were  there 
I  wished  you  were  a  long  way  off ;  when  you  were 
away,  I  wanted  you  near  me. —  Ask  Mama,  her 
room  was  next  to  mine  there.  \_Laiigh'mg.'\ 
She'll  tell  you  that  I  called  for  you  in  the  night! 
When  we  talked  together,  your  voice  sounded 
strange.  There  were  moments  when  your  voice 
breaking  the  silence,  made  me  feel  faint.  And 
always  the  thought  of  your  "  Dearest  "  I  It  was 
like  a  caress!  At  last,  one  June  night,  we  took 
a  long  walk  In  the  park.  The  window  of  our 
room  had  been  open  all  day.  It  was  filled  with  the 
sweet  perfume  of  the  fields.  How  sweet  It  was! 
I  was  quite  intoxicated!  And  I  kept  talking  and 
talking,  and  you  kissed  me  to  make  me  stop ! 
You  took  me  In  your  arms,  rudely,  like  my  mas- 
ter. Then  I  was  afraid  of  nothing.  FVom  then 
on,  I  had  no  more  fear,  no  more  misgivings.  I 
was  your  slave.  I  love  you,  I  adore  you !  Kiss 
me,  Albert!  And  —  don't  go  to  the  office  to- 
night! 

Albert.     The    little    child!     Come    now,    no 
foolishness!      I  must  go  — 

Adele.      Is  It  so  important — ? 
204 


THE  DUPE 

Albert.  A  very  pressing  business  matter.  A 
great  deal  depends  on  the  result. 

Adele.     Go  then,  and  come  baclc  quickly. 

Albert.  I'll  go  and  come  back  immediately 
' —  in  fifteen  minutes. 

Adele.  You  are  going  to  your  office,  aren't 
you? 

Albert.  Where  else  should  I  go?  Are  you 
jealous? 

Adele  \^laughhig^.  I  was  only  fooling. 
Good-by ! 

Albert.  I'll  come  back  soon.  Good-by. 
\^He  goes  out.'\ 

Adele.  I  love  him!  [After  a  pause.]  I 
wonder  if  It's  true  what  he  said  the  other  day, 
that  a  woman  should  not  love  her  husband  too 
blindly,  that  if  she  is  really  sensible  and  consider- 
ate, she  should  be  reserved,  so  that  she  can  keep 
him  well  in  hand?  To  be  a  superior  and  intelli- 
gent wife?  Do  like  my  sister?  Every  moment 
be  on  the  alert  to  look  after  your  husband's  wel- 
fare, and  in  that  way,  get  "around"  him?  If 
you  don't  do  that,  he  will  get  the  better  of  you  — 
Then  marriage  is  a  struggle,  where  either  the 
husband  or  the  wife  must  be  the  victor.  The 
people  who  say  that  have  never  loved !  No,  I 
won't  follow  their  advice!  I  can't  do  it!  It's 
too  sweet  to  let  yourself  be  domineered  over.  I 
know  I'm  only  a  little  foolish  wife. —  Oh,  here 
comes  Marie ! 

[Efiter  Marie.] 

Marie.  How  nice  it  is  to  live  so  near!  My 
husband  has  gone  to  bed,  and  I  thought  I'd  run 
over  to  see  you  a  moment. 

205 


FOUR  PLAYS 


Adele.     Your  husband  in  bed  so  soon?     At 

this  hour?     Is  he  sick? 

Marie.     No,  it's  only  a  habit  of  his. 

Adele  [swiliug].  That  you  persuade  him  to 
keep  up ! 

Marie.     What? 

Adele.  Nothing.  You  must  forgive  me  if  I 
sound  foolish:  I'm  so  happy!  I  think  parents 
are  quite  right  in  forcing  their  daughters  to 
marry.  When  girls  are  young,  they  have  no 
sense.      Dear  Albert ! 

Marie.      Is  dear  Albert  here? 

Adele.  No,  he's  just  gone  to  the  office. 
He'll  be  back  at  ten. 

Marie.     Oh,  he  goes  out  evenings,  now? 

Adele.     Just  to  the  office! 

Marie.     It's  dangerous;  even  to  the  office! 

Adele.  You  are  too  suspicious:  I'm  perfectly 
sure  of  him.  Of  course,  it's  natural,  you  know: 
some  people  are  confiding,  and  others  not.  A 
man  must  have  some  freedom.  I  should  never 
love  a  man  who  would  do  everything  I  liked.  It's 
nice  once  in  a  while  to  be  refused. 

Marie.     Think  so? 

Adele.  Yes  —  rather  —  or  —  well,  I  hardly 
know.     Just  now  I'm  a  little  mad,  I'm  so  happy! 

Marie.  Yet  I  advise  you  to  refuse  to  let  him 
go  out  at  night,  no  matter  how  good  his  excuse  is. 
This  going  to  theaters,  and  cafes  and  clubs  —  clubs 
above  all  — ! 

Adele.      But  zvc  love  each  other!      [J  pause.] 

Marie.     I  was  at  Mme.  Rousseau's  to-day. 

Adele.     Indeed? 

Marie.     Yes. 

206 


THE  DUPE 


Adele.  What  did  the  good  Mme.  Rousseau 
tell  you? 

NIarie.     a  thousand  things. 

Adele.     Secrets? 

Marie.  Oh,  not  at  all !  She  asked  about 
you,  and  then  talked  about  your  husband. 

Adele.     Did  she? 

Marie.  What  a  singular  woman  she  is.  It 
seems  that  she  is  always  meddling  with  something 
that  doesn't  concern  her. 

Adele.     She  certainly  is ! 

Marie.  Of  course,  she  seems  to  be  very  well 
informed.  She  says  some  things  that  are  not  in 
the  least  pleasant  to  hear. 

Adele.  Did  she  tell  you  anything  like  that 
about  Albert? 

Marie.     No,  no,  not  about  your  husband  — 

Adele.      Really?     You  look  rather  queer  — 

Marie.     Of  course  not  — 

Adele  {^leav'uig  her  woi-k^.  I  love  Albert  so 
deeply  that  the  slightest  suspicion  upsets  me  ter- 
ribly. 

Marie.  Poor  little  dear!  You're  a  perfect 
darling!  If  he  ever  thought  of  being  unfaithful 
to  you,  he'd  be  the  lowest  of  blackguards !  But 
you  have  no  cause  for  worry  — 

Adele.     I'm  not  anxious. 

Marie.  And  you're  right. —  \^A  pause] 
Proofs,  real  proofs  are  what  are  always  needed 
in  time  of  danger. 

Adele.  I  know  that  Mme.  Rousseau  said 
something  about  my  husband. 

Marie.     But  it  was  all  so  foolish ! 

Adele.     Well,  what  did  she  say? 
207 


FOUR  PLAYS 


Marie.  Lies,  of  course.  I  ask  you,  how  could 
Albert,  who  loves  you,  have  married  you  to  pay 
off  his  debts,  and  now  keep  his  former  mistress, 
a  woman  of  forty? 

Adele.      Did  she  say  that? 

Marie.     Yes. 

Adele.  Let  her  then,  I  don't  care  I  It's  just 
funny,  that's  all. 

Marie.  But  that  isn't  all.  Just  imagine,  she 
says  your  husband  was  surprised  with  this  woman 
in  his  arms  — 

Adele.     By  whom? 

Marie.     By  M.  and  Mme.  Rousseau. 

Adele.  And  what  did  M.  Rousseau  say?  As 
a  rule,  he  is  not  inclined  to  treat  things  lightly. 

Marie.  He  corroborates  his  wife,  and  adds 
something. 

Adele.     What? 

Marie.  He  declares  that  Albert  has  rented  an 
apartment  for  this  woman  not  far  from  here,  in 
order  to  be  near  her.  He  even  knows  the  lady's 
name:  Caroline  —  yes,  I  think  that's  it!  What 
gossiping  scandal-mongers  there  are  in  this  world! 

Adele.      Caroline?     Caroline? 

Marie.     What's  the  matter  with  you? 

Adele.  I  seem  to  remember  something,  my- 
self. Something  seemed  peculiar,  but  I  believed 
Albert's  explanations.  Could  it  be  true,  then? 
Are  the  Rousseaus  right?  One  day,  Albert  was 
at  the  office,  I  saw  a  letter  that  had  come  for 
him  —  it  was  in  his  desk  —  it  was  from  a  woman 
—  signed  "  Caroline."  I  showed  it  to  him,  but 
he  swore  that  was  ancient  history.  He  seemed 
very  much  surprised  to  see  it;  "  That  should  have 

208 


THE  DUPE 


been  burned  long  ago,"  he  said.  He  then  told 
me  that  he  had  never  had  anything  to  do  with 
her.  He  even  laughed  at  what  had  happened, 
and  I  remember  that  I  laughed  with  him.  Yet  I 
remember  that  the  letter  must  have  been  written 
quite  recently:  the  ink  seemed  fresh.  Where  is 
that  letter?  I'll  show  it  to  you.  We  must  get 
to  the  bottom  of  this  now. —  Where  did  I  put  it? 
It  began  with  "My  Dear  Albert" — Now  I 
can't  find  it!  —  And  to  think  that  another  woman 
has  called  him  "  My  Dear  Albert " !  Where 
is  it? 

Marie.  Don't  bother  so  much  about  a  little 
gossip.  There's  really  nothing  the  matter! 
Don't  cry  about  it — I  can't  bear  to  see  you  cry! 

Adele.  You're  right:  it's  nothing  at  all.  I 
know  Albert  would  not  deceive  me.  The  whole 
thing's  only  a  story  made  up  by  disagreeable  peo- 
ple. If  you  only  knew  how  nice  Albert  is!  Just 
now,  when  we  were  talking  together,  he  was  so 
open  and  frank!  Could  he  have  been  thinking 
of  some  one  else  at  such  a  time?  Could  he  de- 
ceive me?  Nonsense!  [^Suddenly  taking  fright.^ 
And  yet  — 

Marie.     Yet? 

Adele.  It's  rather  strange  how  certain  things 
come  to  mind  at  times !  —  Only  the  other  day  — 
I  never  thought  of  it  before,  yet  it's  clear  now!  — 
Shall  I  always  be  thinking  of  something  evil? 
No,  no,  no  —  and  yet — ?  It's  this:  the  other 
day,  I  walked  half-way  to  his  office  with  him. 
We  got  to  the  end  of  the  Palais  Royal  garden  — 
under  the  little  archway  where  there  aren't  any 
shops,  at  the  foot  of  the  little  stairway  leading  to 

209 


FOUR  PLAYS 


the  Rue  Vivienne,  we  passed  a  light-complexioned 
woman,  rather  tall  —  she  was  smiling  —  as  if 
she  were  meeting  a  friend.  I  looked  at  my  hus- 
band. Funny,  he  was  smiling,  too.  I  remember 
perfectly:  then  he  kept  on  smiling  at  her.  How 
foolish  I  am!  It's  only  my  imagination,  I  know! 
What  if  he  did  smile   at  her?     Perhaps  —  well 

—  and  if  he  did?  Perhaps  he  didn't  know  her? 
As  any  one  might.      But  then  people  don't  do  it 

—  that  way!  Then  something  else  !  As  soon  as 
we'd  go  up  the  stairs,  I  left  him.  I  had  an  er- 
rand to  do.  As  I  was  leaving,  I  saw  him  go  back; 
instead  of  going  to  the  Bourse,  he  went  the  other 
way!     To  join  that  woman  we  passed! 

Marie.  He  may  have  gone  to  see  his  friend 
Berard,  who  lives  in  the  Rue  Montpensier? 

Adele.  An  old  friend  —  yes,  possibly  — 
probably  —  But  no !  Then  he  would  have  gone 
to  the  left.  He  didn't,  he  went  after  that  woman 
who  had  come  down  the  stairs. —  How  awful! 
He  is  deceiving  me!  I  know  it!  And  I  loved 
him  so  !  —  What  a  fool  I've  been !  There  wasn't 
a  day  I  didn't  think  of  it,  look  forward  to  the 
time  he'd  be  coming  hack  from  the  office,  to  our 
little  dinner  all  to  ourselves,  and  the  evenings  we'd 
spend  together.  I  was  so  happy,  so  confident!  — 
What  a  life  I  have  before  me !  —  I  never  deserved 
this  blow ! 

Marie.  My  dear  Adele !  Don't  go  on  that 
way!  If  I  had  known  all  this  was  going  to  hap- 
pen, I  should  never  have  repeated  what  I  heard! 
Now  be  brave.  You  really  have  no  proofs,  you 
know.  How  do  you  know  you're  not  the  victim 
of  an  awful  lie?     Ask  your  husband,  be  very  care- 

2IO 


THE  DUPE 


ful  how  —  then  you'll  have  time  to  decide  what 
you  want  to  do. 

Adele.  You're  right — I  must  first  be  posi- 
tive —  I  must  know.  Perhaps  I  am  jumping  at 
conclusions. —  Sh !  There's  his  key  in  the  lock! 
ril  speak  to  him. 

Marie.  My  dear  Adele,  be  calm,  though. — 
I'll  leave  you  alone  with  him.  Courage,  now !  — 
Oh,  if  I'd  only  known  before!  What  a  fool  I 
am!  Will  you  forgive  me?  After  all,  I've  only 
done  my  duty  as  a  sister. 

[Enter  Albert.'] 

Albert.     You  here?     [To  Adele.]      I'm  very 

sorry:    I    was    kept  —  couldn't    help    it met    a 

friend  — 

Marie.  I'm  going  —  I  must  get  to  bed. 
Eleven  o'clock!      It's  high  time! 

Albert.  Eleven!  That's  right.  I've  been 
a  whole  hour! 

Marie.  Good  night.  Poor  dear!  How  I 
blame  myself! 

[She  goes  out.] 

Albert.  I  really  don't  like  coming  in  so  late. 
—  Old  friend  got  hold  of  me  in  the  street,  and 
simply  wouldn't  let  me  go.  I  simply  couldn't  get 
away. 

Adele.     Albert! 

Albert.     Yes? 

Adele.  Look  me  in  the  eyes !  —  You're  de- 
ceiving me ! 

Albert.     Why  — ! 

Adele.     You're  deceiving  me! 

Albert.     Adele,  this  is  ridiculous  — 

Adele.     Swear  that  you're  not  — ! 

211 


FOUR  PLAYS 


Albert  [embarrassed].  If  you  want  me  to  — 
of  course  I  swear  — 

Adele.  How  absurd  of  me  to  ask  you !  I 
have  only  to  look  at  you  to  see  where  you've  been! 

Albert.     Why,  what's  the  matter? 

Adele  [snatching  of  his  collar  and  //V]. 
You're  not  even  dressed!  This  collar  isn't  fas- 
tened !     The  tie  is  not  tied  — 

Albert.      It  was  so  warm  in  the  street! 

Adele.  Not  in  the  street!  Deny  it  if  you 
can! 

Albert.  Well,  then,  I  don't!  And  be 
damned  to  you ! 

Adele.  My  God,  it's  true !  And  I  adored 
you !  I  was  yours,  body  and  soul !  I  lived  only 
for  you !  Now,  it's  all  over. —  But  I  still  have 
some  pride  left!  Don't  imagine  I'll  stay  here 
now,  live  with  you,  and  take  care  of  you  !  Never ! 
I  could  never  stand  this!  Now  you  may  do  what 
you  like!  Spend  my  dowry  on  your  woman  if 
you  want!  I  won't  be  here  —  I'm  going  to  my 
mother!  Good-by!  All  this  —  this  —  Oh  — 
help  me  —  give  me  your  arm  —  I  —  I   can't  — 

[She  falls  on  the  sofa  in  a  faint.] 

Albert.  Fainted!  Adele,  Adele!  Poor  lit- 
tle woman !  —  I  am  a  beast !  A  brute  !  [// 
pause.]  Well,  what  now?  [He  rubs  her  hands, 
while  speaking.]  The  whole  thing  was  absurd! 
I  told  Caroline  not  to  detain  me!  Now  what'U 
she  do?  Adele  will  go  to  her  mother;  she  at 
least  will  not  refuse  to  see  me !  Will  she,  though  ? 
Of  course?  And  Adele  loves  me  too  well  to 
leave  me. —  Well,  there's  no  great  harm.  She 
had  to  find  out,  some  day !      It's  happened  this 

212 


THE  DUPE 


evening.  I'm  glad  it's  all  over.  We  won't  have 
any  more  trouble  on  that  score,  then.  It's  really 
much  better  this  way.  I  like  things  perfectly 
open. —  Whew,  my  hand  is  tired  —  she  doesn't 
seem  to  be  coming  to. —  I  wonder  what  she'll  say 
when  she  sees  me?  Cry,  I  suppose,  and  make  a 
scene!  —  She's  breathing  regularly  now.     Good! 

—  No  more  danger.  I  think  I'll  spare  her  my 
presence,  and  send  the  maid  to  look  after  her. 
Be  so  delicate!  —  I'll  make  it  all  up  to  her  later. 

—  Whew!  I'm  tired!  [Yawning.]  I'm  going 
to  bed. 

[He  rings  the  hell,  which  is  to  the  right  of  the 
fireplace,  and  goes  out.^ 


[Curtain.] 


213 


ACT  III 

l^Scene:  The  same  as  in  I  he  preceding  acts. 
Mme.  Viot,  Marie,  Adele,  aiid  Jlbcrt  are 
present.] 

Albert.     Have  a  nice  dinner,  Mother-in-law? 

Mme.  Viot.  We  always  have  nice  ciinners  at 
your  house. 

Albert.  Good. —  I'm  in  splendid  spirits, 
aren't  you? 

Mme.  Viot.     I  should  think  so! 

Albert.  This  is  indeed  pleasant,  now.  [To 
Adele.]  Isn't  it?  And  to  think  that  three  years 
ago,  she  wanted  to  leave  me,  go  back  to  her 
mother!  Do  you  remember,  Adele?  And  for 
what  reason?  Because  I  was  not  a  model  hus- 
band! Heavens,  Avho  is  a  model  in  this  life? 
Not  even  you,  in  spite  of  your  recent  access  of 
religion ! 

Adele.  If  I  lack  something,  it  is  because  the 
good  Lord  isn't  quite  enough  to  insure  my  happi- 
ness ! 

Albert.  Kiss  me!  How  I  love  her!  How 
I  love  her!  My  life  would  be  empty  without  her. 
She  is  —  she  is  an  angel !      Dear  Adele  ! 

Adeli:.  It's  all  so  strange.  The  evening  I 
left  here,  after  I  fainted,  I  swore  I  would  never 
put  foot  in  the  house  again!      1  loathed,  I  hated 

2  I  JL 


THE  DUPE 


you  !  But  Mama  talked  and  reasoned  with  me  — 
then  I  came  back.  I'm  not  sorry  for  it  —  that  is 
enough ! 

Albert.     Charming! 

Mme.  Viot.     You  may  well  say  It! 

Albert.  And  I  do. —  And  your  dear  sister, 
too.  She  doesn't  say  anything,  but  look  at  her: 
working  — 

Marie.     Yes. 

Albert.  Trousers  for  that  youngster  of 
yours? 

Marie.  Yes.  How  fast  he  wears  them  out! 
How  much  he  costs  me,  just  for  his  trousers! 
The  little  rascal ! 

Albert.  Why  didn't  you  bring  him  this  even- 
ing?    We  might  have  played  soldiers! 

Marie.     When  he's  with  you,  he's  so  naughty! 

Albert.  But  very  amusing!  Wouldn't  it  be 
splendid  to  have  a  little  fellow  like  that!  [To 
Adele.']      Ah,  Adele  —  I  don't  blame  you  ! 

Marie.  Oh,  well,  let's  hope — !  If  you're 
serious  — ! 

Albert  [to  Marie].  You,  you're  a  great  one ! 
—  When  does  your  husband  return  from  Mar- 
seilles? 

Marie.     To-morrow. 

Albert.  I'll  tell  him  what  you  said.  [To 
Mme.  Viot.']  Don't  you  agree  with  me?  And 
you,  dear  Mother-in-law,  you're  simply  wonder- 
ful! It's  not  my  fault  if  I  don't  understand  life 
as  you  do.  I  have  the  very  devil  of  a  disposition. 
Really,  you  do  carry  your  —  how  many  ?  —  years : 
forty?     Forty-five? 

Mme.  Viot.     Flatterer! 

215 


FOUR  PLAYS 


Albert.  But  you  like  me  to  —  to  say  these 
little  things,  to  you,  eh? 

Mme.  Viot.  Yes  —  I'd  rather  hear  agree- 
able than  disagreeable  things. 

Albert.  Ah!  —  Look,  what's  the  dear  lady 
knitting  now?     A  comfortable  for  me? 

Mme.  Viot.     For  the  poor. 

Albert.  The  poor!  She's  always  thinking 
of  the  poor!  See  here!  I'm  not  going  out  this 
evening,  I'm  going  to  stay  with  my  mother-in-law! 
No  escapades  to-day  —  bosom  of  the  family  and 
conjugal  love ! 

Mme.  Viot.     Adorable  boy! 

Albert.  But  take  care !  One  compliment 
too  many  and  I'll  take  fright  and  go  farther  than 
you  like !  You  laugh,  but  I'm  serious. —  When 
you're  too  free  with  me,  I'm  not  responsible  — 

Mme.  Viot.  What  a  dear!  [Suddenly  be- 
coming pensive.]  That's  the  way  he's  always 
played  on  our  feelings.  You  make  us  forget  your 
bad  actions  so  soon  ! 

Albert.     Who? 

Mme.  Viot.  Tell  me,  you  bad  boy,  how  much 
is  left  of  my  daughter's  dowry ?  Nothing!  And 
yours?  And  the  money  you  got  from  your 
parents?  Not  a  sou!  Between  the  two  of  you, 
you've  squandered  nearly  a  million  francs!  You 
have  only  your  15,000  francs'  income  to  live  on. 
And  who  gets  a  half  of  that?  I  don't  dare  men- 
tion the  name!  And  I  thought  it  was  a  great 
stroke  of  business  to  marry  my  daughter  to  you! 

Albert.     That's  funny! 

Mme.  Viot.  You  certainly  ran  through  that 
fortune  fast  enough. 

216 


THE  DUPE 


Albert.  Yes,  fast  enough!  But  then  I'm  a 
good  fellow. 

Mme.  Viot.  Yes,  you  are!  —  You're  not  In 
debt  any  longer,  are  you?  You're  not  going  to 
come  to  me  again,  as  you  did  six  months  ago,  and 
wheedle  me  into  giving  you  my  savings,  for  cer- 
tain debts,  gambling  and  others?  Don't  you  ever 
win  at  your  club  ? 

Albert.     Never! 

Adele.  Let's  not  talk  about  that,  Mother. 
It's  so  painful ! 

Albert  \_laiighing^.  Ah,  your  mother! 
Look  at  her  face  when  she  talks  of  money! 

Mme.  Viot.  Oh,  well,  I  —  I  must  have  money 
to  live  on.  A  great  deal !  You  can  never  have 
too  much.  But  I'm  quite  happy  now;  this  morn- 
ing I  did  a  good  stroke  of  business.  I  had  a  neat 
little  pile  of  savings  in  my  drawer;  I  took  it  to 
my  broker,  laid  it  all  on  his  desk  —  twenty-five 
franc  pieces,  bills  all  tied  together  in  little  heaps 
of  ten.  He  looked  at  me  over  the  top  of  his 
spectacles  —  I  took  my  time  about  it.  After  I'd 
counted  it  all  —  and  it  took  a  long  time !  —  I  said 
to  him:  "  Put  it  all  in  good  solid  stocks.  Good 
morning,  M.  Robillet!  "  He  shook  hands  with 
me  and  bowed!  —  That's  the  sort  of  thing,  I  say, 
that's  decidedly  pleasant! 

Albert.  You  are  the  queen  of  mothers-in- 
law,  and  Adele  is  the  queen  of  women !  Work, 
my  child!  Respect  the  time-honored  virtues:  the 
thimble,  the  thread,  and  the  needle  —  "  Of  those 
who  worked  for  their  daughters'  trousseaux  " — 
Who  said  that? 

Adele.     Regnard,  wasn't  it? 
217 


FOUR  PLAYS 


Mme.  Viot.     No,  no:  Beranger! 

Albert.     Yes,  of  course. 

Mme.  Viot.  What  charming  songs  he's  writ- 
ten, that  Beranger!  There's  one  my  grandfather 
used  to  sing,  I  remember. 

Albert.  Whew!  They  used  to  sing  Beran- 
ger to  you  ? 

Marie.     What  was  the  song? 

Albert.     Sing  it  to  us! 

Mme.  Viot.     I  don't  remember  it  all. 

Albert.  The  book  is  in  my  room,  on  the 
shelf.  [To  Adcle.~\  Get  it  for  your  mother. 
[A dele  goes  o///.]  We'll  sing  it  together:  the 
matriarch  singing  in  the  midst  of  her  children! 
The  couplets  of  youth  repeated  in  the  accents  of 
maturity.  Ha  !  Ha  !  —  [He  takes  Mme.  Viot 
in  his  arms.~\     Now  — !      Can  you  remember? 

[Re-enter  Adele  with  the  book  and  a  letter.^ 

Adele  [to  Albert^.  A  note  that  was  just 
brought  for  you, 

Albert  [taking  the  letter'].     Thanks. 

Mme.  Viot.  [who  has  been  reading]. 
There,  I  knew  it:  "  Lisette's  Infidelities." 

Albert.     Yes,  I  remember  it. 

Mme.  Viot:  [singing,  accompanied  by  Albert]. 

"  Oh,  dear  Lisette 
Whose  charms  divine 
Make  my  regret! 
Oh,  how  I  pine ! 
Thy  cold  disdain 
I  clearly  see : 
My  sorrow's  vain, 
Thou'rt  false  to  me! 
218 


THE  DUPE 


Albert,  [sinking  loudly,  as  he  opens  the  let- 
ter]. 

"  Lisette,  Lisette, 
Thou'rt  false  to  me! 
Long  life,  grisette! 
Long  life,  Lisette, 
So  drink  to  our  love. 

Oh,  Heavens  —  [He  interrupts  himself,  terri- 
fied.] Adele,  Mme.  Viot!  NIme.  Chesneau! 
This  Is  horrible!  If  you  don't  save  me,  I'm 
ruined ! 

Adele.     My  God !     What  is  it  ?     Tell  us ! 

Marie.     Tell  us ! 

Mme.  Viot.     What  is  it? 

Albert.  If  I  don't  have  200,000  francs  by 
to-morrow  morning,  anything  may  happen  to  me ! 

Mme.  Viot.     Why? 

Albert.  Why?  Why?  This  is  why  — 
well,  it's  not  easy  to  say.  Don't  insist,  please  — 
please  !     I  don't  dare  ! 

Adele.  Explain  it;  you  must.  What's  the 
trouble  ? 

Mme.  Viot.     We  must  know !  — 

Albert.  It's  a  regular  whirlwind  —  once  you 
get  started,  there's  no  stopping!  Horrible!  — 
That  damned  Caroline  !  I  told  her  no  good  would 
come  of  it!      She  hasn't  the  sense  of  a  child ! 

Mme.  Viot.  Never  mind  that  woman!  Tell 
us,  now. 

Albert.  Here  then:  since  you  so  insist.  I 
was  terribly  hard  pressed  for  money,  and  at  one 
time  or  another  I  took  200,000  francs  of  the  com- 
pany's funds. 

219 


FOUR  PLAYS 


All.     Oh! 

Mme.  Viot,      Lovely  surprise  ! 

Albert.  If  I  don't  refund  the  money  to-mor- 
row mornnig  I'm  ruined,  dishonored,  sent  to  jail! 
The  directors  have  written  that  they  are  coming 
to  inspect  the  office  at  eleven  o'clock.  They 
won't  handle  me  with  kid  gloves,  I  can  tell  you! 
Swooping  down  on  me  like  that!  I'm  not  a  regu- 
lar thief,  I  suppose !  I  always  meant  to  put  it 
back,  you  know ! 

Mme.  Viot.  They  all  say  that,  but  they  never 
do  it. 

Albert.  I  couldn't,  it  wasn't  my  fault.  I 
counted  on  another  affair  —  which  didn't  mate- 
rialize. 

Mme.  Viot.     My  death,  of  course ! 

Albert.  No  more  than  on  anything  else. 
I'm  not  to  blame.  You'll  pay,  won't  you?  I 
haven't  a  sou.  Wait,  yes:  one  hundred  francs! 
Say  something,  for  the  love  of  Heaven! 

Mme.  Vior.  You're  a  good-for-nothing! 
That's  what  I  say ! 

Albert.     Madame! 

Mme.  Viot.  A  good-for-nothing,  I  repeat! 
[In  an  altered  voici'.^  But  are  you  sure  the  di- 
rectors are  coming  to-morrow? 

Albert.     Absolutely. 

Mme.  Viot.     Fool ! 

Albert.  Instead  of  insulting  me,  you  might 
help  me  parry  the  blow.  Now,  Mme.  Viot,  an- 
swer me:  I've  got  to  get  out  of  this.  Loan  me 
200,000  francs!  Only  till  to-morrow,  till  noon! 
Just  let  me  have  them  in  the  safe  when  they  come. 
I'll  give  them  to  you  an  hour  after  the  directors 

220 


THE  DUPE 


leave.  That's  an  Idea!  Come,  say  something  — 
yes  or  no?  I  don't  Hke  you  to  be  saying  nothing 
at  all  !^ 

Adele.  Let  Mama  have  time  to  collect  her 
thoughts,  dear.  Meantime,  perhaps  we  can  think 
of  another  way  out  of  the  difficulty. 

Albert.  You  know  very  well  there  Is  no 
other. 

Adele.  That's  true :  we  have  nothing.  I  see 
no  way  out  —  unless  —  yes,  that  will  pay  part  of 
it  —  perhaps  Mama  will  consent  to  pay  the  rest. 

Albert.     What  do  you  mean? 

Adele.  Why,  if  my  dowry  is  all  gone,  I  still 
have  my  laces  —  worth  about  15,000  francs  — 
then  there  are  my  jewels. 

Albert.     Good!     Where  are  they? 

Adele.     In  the  desk  drawer. 

Albert.     I'll  get  them.      [He  goes  out.'] 

Marie.  Poor  child!  This  is  awful!  To 
have  to  sell  your  jewels,  at  your  age  !     It's  a  pity ! 

Adele.  What  else  can  we  do?  We  have  no 
time  to  lose,      I'll  sell  them  In  the  morning. 

[Albert  re-enters.] 

[To  Albert].     You  have  them? 

Albert.     All. 

Adele.  Lay  them  on  the  table.  Now  give 
me  a  pencil  and  paper.  Thanks.  Lamp  is  low! 
[She  turns  up  the  zvick.]  There. —  200,000 
francs,  you  say?  Here's  my  diamond  necklace. 
[iriiile  she  is  speaking,  Marie  hands  her  the 
je-zvel  boxes  which  she  opens.]  What  can  I  get 
for  it?  25,000,  let  us  say!  How  beautiful  they 
are,  this  one  especially!  [To  Marie.]  Pretty, 
aren't  they?     Here's  the  bracelet:  4000.     Now 

221 


FOUR  PLAYS 


the  cameo  necklace  —  I've  worn  it  only  twice 
—  4,000.  Ear-rings:  5,000.  [Takitig  them 
off.]  They  stick,  a  little  —  not  used  to  coming 
offl  [Taking  of  her  rin^s.]  Now  the  rings; 
the  turquoises:  2,000. —  I  want  to  keep  the  ruby, 
it's  my  engagement  ring! 

Mme.  Viot.      Pleasant  souvenir! 

Albert.     Sell  it  anyway! 

Adele.     No,  I  don't  want  to  sell  it ! 

Mme.  Viot.  Pll  buy  back  your  earrings!  For 
the  sake  of  the  family,  I  don't  want  you  to  part 
with  them.      Put  them  on  again. 

Adele.     Thank  you  !     Thank  you ! 

Mme.  Viot.     Don't  thank  me. 

Adele.  That  makes  55,000  francs  I  can  fur- 
nish.    That's  all.     Now,  Mama? 

Mme.  Viot.  Don't  try  to  argue  with  me :  I 
shan't  pay  a  sou ! 

Adele.     You  refuse?!     It's  impossible! 

Albert.     Now,  Madame !  — 

Mme.  Viot.  Not  a  word  from  you,  you  miser- 
able sneak! 

Albert.     Can't  you  listen  to  reason? 

Mme.  Viot.     No  impudence,  please ! 

Albert.      I'm  no  more  impudent  than  you. 

Mme.  Viot.     What's  that? 

Albert.     No  more  impudent  than  you,  I  say! 

Mme.  Viot.    You  repeat  it?     I'm  going  home  ! 

Albert.     Sulky! 

Mme.  Viot.     Sulky?!     Sulky?! 

Albert.     Yes! 

Mme.  Viot.  Take  care,  young  inan!  I'll 
take  hold  of  you  — ! 

Albert.     Scratch  me,  won't  you? 
222 


THE  DUPE 


Mme.  Viot  \_going  toward  Albert'].  Yes,  I 
will!     I'll  —  ! 

Marie  [interfering].  Mama!  What  a  dis- 
graceful scene  !  What  if  any  one  should  come  in ! 
Really  —  ! 

Adele.  We're  all  very  much  upset  —  let's  put 
an  end  to  this.  We  must  find  145,000  francs 
now. 

Mme.  Viot.  I  won't  pay  a  sou !  I  won't  see 
your  grandfather's  good  money  slip  through  this 
sieve !  The  poor  old  man  would  blush  from 
Heaven  if  he  saw  me  doing  it! 

Albert.  Then,  Madame,  I  shall  be  dishon- 
ored! 

Mme.  Viot.  I  won't  pay,  so  there!  If  you 
were  a  real  man,  you  would  have  blown  your 
brains  out  twenty  times  by  now  instead  of  lower- 
ing yourself  by  asking  me  for  the  money ! 

Albert.  My  dear  good  lady,  you're  losing 
your  senses. 

Mme.  Viot.  Don't  you  call  me  your  "  dear 
good  lady  " !  If  I'm  losing  my  senses,  isn't  it 
enough  to  make  me  with  an  idiot  like  you, —  ? 

Albert.  But  think  of  the  good  name  of  the 
family! 

Mme.  Viot.  The  good  name  of  the  family  has 
nothing  to  do  with  the  case.  Monsieur!  Any  one 
can  tell  you  that !  Every  one  knows  my  husband 
was  a  judge,  that  my  grandfather  was  an  advocate 
at  Paris  and  my  brother  a  notary.  They  will  keep 
up  our  good  name  !  The  disgrace  will  be  yours, 
and  yours  only ! 

Albert.  Then  you  really  refuse?  Good! 
I  know  what  to  do  now ! 

223 


FOUR  PLAYS 


Adele.      Mama,  he's  going  to  kill  himself! 

Albert.     No:     I'm  going  to  Brussels. 

Mme.  Viot.     Am  I  not  right,  Marie? 

Marie.  I  think  you  had  better  pay.  Mama 
■ —  for  the  sake  of  your  grandson  — 

Albert  [to  Mme.  Fiot].  You  can  afford  it, 
you're  rich!  You  admit  having  600,000  francs, 
but  you  have  a  million  ! 

Mme.  Viot  [furiously'].  I'm  not  rich !  —  And 
what  If  I  were?  I  couldn't  keep  my  money  long, 
Heaven  knows!  "You're  rich!"  Lovely! 
Haven't  I  plenty  of  ways  to  spend  my  money? 
That  fool  carriage,  which  I  never  use  —  that  you 
force  me  to  keep  for  the  sake  of  appearances! 
Only  this  morning  do  you  know  what  I  paid  my 
architect?  A  hundred  and  fifteen  francs  just  for 
fixing  the  roof ! 

Adele.  But  that's  not  what  we're  discussing, 
Mama ! 

Mme.  Viot.  And  the  taxes !  What  taxes  the 
Government  makes  me  pay!  They're  a  pack  of 
thieves!  This  is  a  fine  Republic  that  Monsieur 
there  helps  support!  Ha!  —  Meantime,  I  pay! 
The  big  fortunes  of  twenty  years  ago  are  hardly 
enough  to  run  a  poor  man's  family  now.  And 
you  talk  of  getting  more  money  out  of  me!  It's 
ridiculous,  l^verybody's  against  me !  Not  one 
of  you  takes  my  side!  At  my  age  there's  only 
one  thing  for  me  to  do:  live  in  the  desert  or  the 
work-house !  That's  a  fine  idea  now.  Then 
you'd  be  rid  of  me.  I  could  get  along  on  a  thou- 
sand francs  a  year,  and  then  you  could  squander 
my  fortune  to  your  heart's  content! 

224 


THE  DUPE 


Marie.  Well,  if  you  ask  my  advice,  I'll  tell 
you  what  I  think. 

Mme.  Viot.  Thank  you,  dear  children.  I'll 
tell  you  one  thing,  though  :  in  my  father's  house,  no 
one  would  have  dared  raise  his  voice  against 
mother, —  the  way  you're  doing  this  moment. 
You  should  have  heard  your  poor  uncle  trying  to 
discuss  and  advise. 

Marie.  Wouldn't  they  let  him  even  when  they 
asked  for  his  advice? 

Mme.  Viot.  Not  even  then !  My  father 
would  have  sent  him  to  his  room,  and  told  him  to 
mind  his  own  business.  But  times  have  changed, 
no  one  respects  his  parents  nowadays — ! 

Adele.      But  we  respect  you.  Mama  ! 

Mme.  Viot  [furiously].  You  don't!  You 
don't  respect  me  !  I'm  going  home,  sell  my  furni- 
ture, lock  the  door,  and  leave  —  to-morrow  morn- 
ing— 

Albert.     For  the  work-house  ! 

Mme.  Viot.  No,  for  my  house  in  the  country, 
at  Romilly.  I'm  going  to  spend  the  rest  of  my  life 
in  the  woods  —  with  the  animals  —  that  treat  me 
better  than  human  beings !  There  at  least  I 
won't  be  troubled  with  children  who  take  all  my 
money  —  sons-in-law  that  insult  and  disgrace  me  ! 

Albert.  Good!  Then  don't  pay!  It  was 
only  for  your  sake  I  said  anything  about  this  mat- 
ter. Now  I  know  what  to  do.  I'm  going  to  live 
in  Brussels,  where  I  have  good  friends.  I'll  be- 
gin all  over  again.  I  won't  listen  to  any  more  of 
your  rigmaroles!  Not  a  bit  of  it.  I  exposed  the 
whole   situation   to   you :    frankly,   honestly,    ami- 

225 


FOUR  PLAYS 


cably.  Now  I  wash  my  hands  of  it.  Only,  I 
must  confess  that  I  am  greatly  surprised.  I  had 
thought  that  a  good  sensible  woman  like  you 
would  have  preferred  to  make  a  small  temporary 
sacrifice  to  having  a  son-in-law  in  Belgium !  You 
could  have  had  your  money  back  any  time  you 
cared  to  ask  for  it.  It  would  be  in  the  bank,  as 
safe  as  could  be.  But  I  shan't  say  anything  more : 
if  you're  tired  of  my  sermonizing,  so  am  I.  Bet- 
ter come  to  some  decision  among  yourselves.  I 
give  you  an  hour  ! 

[He  pours  out  a  glass  of  zvatcr  for  himself.'} 

Mme.  Viot.     You  are  giving  us  a  sermon  now  ! 

Albert.     Do  you  want  me  to  go? 

Adele.  No,  stay.  Don't  listen  to  him. 
Mama  !      Really,  you're  not  very  generous  ! 

Mme.  Viot.  What?  Aren't  you  satisfied  with 
his  having  squandered  your  whole  dowry?  Do 
you  want  him  to  squander  your  inheritance? 

Adele.  His  interests  just  now  are  greater  than 
mine.  You  say  that  we  don't  keep  together  very 
well  as  a  family.  You've  told  me  twenty  times 
that  the  members  of  a  family  ought  to  help  one 
another  in  times  of  danger.  You  ought  to  prac- 
tise what  you  preach  !  Think  of  the  dishonor  this 
affair  would  be  to  all  of  us.  Think  of  your  grand- 
son too;  you  have  no  right  to  compromise  his 
future.  He  will  marry  some  day,  he  will  try  to 
marry  into  an  honorable  family,  lle'll  not  be 
able  to:  people  won't  allow  their  daughters  to 
form  alliances  with  such  as  we  are. —  You  must 
pay,  you  see.  Our  honor,  our  peace  of  mind, 
forces  you  to  do  it,  not  to  speak  of  our  reputation 
and   even   our   common   material   interests.      If   I 

226 


THE  DUPE 


can't  persuade  you,  then  just  think  it  all  over  to 
yourself.     What  would  father  have  done? 

Mme.  Viot.     Your  father? 

Adele.     Father  would  have  payed. 

Mme.  Viot  [aflcr  a  pause'].  Do  what  you 
like,  only  I  warn  you,  you  shan't  touch  my  stocks 
in  the  Eastern  Railway.   • 

Albert.  But  those  are  the  easiest  to  dispose 
of  at  once. 

Mme.  Viot.     You  shan't  touch  them ! 

Adele.     Then  where  can  we  get  the  money? 

Mme.  Viot.  Ask  Marie,  she  knows  about  my 
business  affairs. 

Marie.  I  know  nothing  whatsoever. —  My 
time  is  spent  only  in  being  with  you  and  loving  you. 
Mama ! 

Adele.  How  are  we  to  go  about  raising  the 
money?      Do  you  get  immediate  cash  on  notes? 

Mme.  Viot.  Ask  your  husband!  He  knows 
about  notes ! 

Adele.  Very  well. —  You  said  the  other  day 
that  you  had  100,000  francs'  worth  of  Eastern 
Railway  stocks  at  your  broker's. 

Marie.  A  hundred  and  seven  thousand  five 
hundred. 

Mme.  Viot.  I  think  I  said  something  about 
not  touching  those  stocks  1 

Adele.     Well,  we  — 

Mme.  Viot.  Try  the  Audaliisiau  Railz^ay,  not 
the  others. 

Adele.  Arc  they  good?  I  don't  know.  Al- 
bert, you  ought  to? 

Albert.  No,  they  don't  move.  Can't  sell 
them  ! 

227 


FOUR  PLAYS 


MiME.  ViOT.  How's  that?  They  went  down 
lately  —  they  certainly  do  move  ! 

Albert.     We're  joking! 

Mme.  Viot.  Well,  then,  sell  the  Eastern 
Stocks,  if  you  insist!  Only  you're  robbing  me;  I 
will  say  that. 

Adele  [zcr///;/^].  107,500  plus  55,000.  That 
makes  — 

Mme.  Viot.     Ha ! 

Adele  [licsitcititicjf].      160 

Mme.  Viot.     162,500! 

Adele.  There  are  still  42,500  francs  needed. 
We'll  get  that  from  your  other  holdings: 
Orleans  Railicay,  Paris-Lyons,  Mediterranean, 
etc. 

Mme.  Viot.  What  about  the  Andalusian 
Railway? 

Adele  [without  listening/].  That  makes  205,- 
000  francs. —  Five  thousand  too  much  ! 

Mme.  Viot  [satirically].  And  some  more 
while  you  are  about  it ! 

Adele.     What's  the  matter? 

Mme.  Viot.     Your  addition  is  wrong. 

Albert  [embarrassed].  No,  it's  right.  I 
took  205,000  francs  from  the  office  —  I  said  200,- 
000  before,  because  it  was  a  convenient  sum. 

Adele.     See,  Mother? 

Mme.  Viot.  I  do  see.  But  I  refuse  to  give 
the  extra  5000  francs! 

Adele.  What  are  5000  francs  when  you're 
already  paying  145,000? 

Mme.   \'i()r    [cahnly].      I    refuse! 

Adele.     For  the  sake  of  your  grandchild! 
228 


THE  DUPE 


Mme.  Viot.     I  refuse  ! 

Marie.  The  stocks  are  in  your  desk  in  the  ht- 
tle  parlor! 

Mme.  Viot  \_thro'wing  her  keys  on  the  floor]. 
There !  Take  my  keys.  You're  robbers ! 
Now,  whoever  of  you  two  dares  pick  up  the  keys, 
I  swear  before  the  Lord  I  will  disinherit!  — 

[Marie,  zvJio  has  stooped  to  pick  up  the  keys, 
quickly  rises.] 

Adele  \_picking  them  up. —  To  Albert]. 
Come ! 

[Adele  and  Albert  go  out.] 

Marie  [after  a  pause].  Let's  at  least  follow 
them.  We  don't  want  them  to  turn  everything  up- 
side down ! 

Mme.  Viot.     Of  course  not. 

Marie.  When  we're  alone,  we  must  have  a 
little  talk. 

Mme.  Viot.     About  what? 

Marie.  The  future.  A  thing  like  this  might 
happen  more  than  once  with  a  son-in-law  like 
Albert.     He'd  ruin  us  all! 

Mme.  Viot.     But  what  can  we  do  about  it? 

Marie.  Of  course,  I  advise  against  divorce  — 
it  would  be  against  the  Church,  but  a  separa- 
tion — ! 

Mme.  Viot.  No,  no,  no.  Once  lose  hold  of 
Albert,  and  I'd  never  see  my  money  again ! 

Marie.  Would  you  prefer  to  have  him  run 
through  another  200,000? 

Mme.  Viot.  Besides,  you  can't  get  a  separa- 
tion for  that  reason. 

Marie.  We're  quite  within  our  rights.  Two 
229 


FOUR  PLAYS 


or  three  times  Albert  has  brought  this  mistress 
here  —  this  summer  —  I  know  it !  —  While  you 
and  Adele  were  at  Romilly ! 

Mme.  Viot.     But  what  will  people  say? 

Marie.  That  you  are  making  the  best  of  a  bad 
job.  It  was  an  unwise  marriage.  I  advised  you 
against  it,  God  knows ! 

[They  go  out,  left.'] 


[Curtain.] 


230 


ACT  IV 

\^The  same  scene  as  in  the  preceding  acts. 
Adele  is  present.  Marie  enters  a  moment 
later. '\ 

Marie.     How  are  you? 

Adele.     Well,  thanks,  dear.     Sit  down. 

Marie.     I'm  not  in  the  way? 

Adele.  No,  no.  Albert  is  still  at  the  office. 
I  felt  a  little  lonely,  all  by  myself. 

Marie.  I  wanted  to  say  something  about  Al- 
bert.    How  is  he  behaving? 

Adele.  He's  lovely,  very  kind  and  consider- 
ate just  now.  He  seems  very  much  cut  up  over 
what's  happened.  I  feel  that  he  bitterly  repents 
it,  and  is  doing  everything  he  can  to  make  amends 
for  that  affair  of  nearly  a  year  ago. 

Marie.     Yes. — 

Adele.  The  other  evening  he  took  me  to  the 
theater  —  that's  an  indication.  He  doesn't  do  it 
often.  Heaven  knews !  That's  a  sure  sign  of  his 
repentance. 

Marie.  How  about  the  money  he  owes 
Mama?     Does  he  think  about  that  —  ever? 

Adele.  I'm  always  talking  to  him  about  It. 
I  have  to  be  very  careful,  for  he  doesn't  like  to  be 
reminded.  But  business  is  business  —  this  year 
hasn't  been  a  very  good  one  for  us :  stocks  haven't 
been  paying  dividends.     So  you  understand  — 

231 


FOUR  PLAYS 


Marie.  Yes,  It  Is  bothersome.  Of  course  If 
we  were  only  sure  of  the  future,  everything  would 
be  all  right.  Unfortunately,  we're  not.  Who 
knows?  A  character  of  his  sort  —  not  sure  of 
himself,  you  know  —  then  that  woman,  who 
seems  to  have  a  greater  hold  on  him  than  ever. 
And  that  money-box,  always  within  his  reach,  to 
which  he  alone  has  the  key!  I'm  afraid  to  think 
oflt!^ 

Adele.  Let's  not  say  anything  about  It, 
please ! 

Marie.     But  we  must! 

Adele.     Why?     We  can  do  nothing. 

Marie.     We  can  discuss  the  matter. 

Adele.     Discuss? 

Marie.     Yes. 

Adele.     What  do  you  mean  by  that? 

Marie.  I  mean  —  that  Mama  thinks  so  too. 
I'm  only  speaking  for  her,  you  understand?  If 
I  were  the  only  one  concerned,  why  then  — ! 
Such  matters  don't  Interest  me  personally  In  the 
least! 

Adele.     Dear  sister! 

Marie.  How  I've  had  to  take  your  part 
against  Mama !  Do  you  know,  she  blames  you 
now  for  everything  —  just  as  If  It  were  your  fault, 
dear! 

Adele.  Poor  Mama !  She'll  never  forgive 
me  for  all  this  trouble.  But  It's  really  not  been 
my  fault. 

Marie.  I  said  we  might  discuss  ways  and 
means  in  order  to  guard  against  another  catas- 
trophe In  the  future.  The  best  plan  would  be  a 
simple  separation  from  your  husband. 

232 


THE  DUPE 


Adele.  You  want  me  to  apply  for  a  separa- 
tion?    What  would  Albert  do  without  me? 

Marie.  Think,  my  dear,  think.  It's  for  your 
good.  Really,  you're  not  in  love  with  your  hus- 
band.    What  if  he  should  play  some  new  pranks 

—  think  what  would  happen?  We've  all  suf- 
fered, you  especially,  from  his  reckless  extrava- 
gance —  and  poor  Mama  !  She's  broken-hearted 
to  see  all  her  savings  go  like  this.  It's  taken  her 
nearly  a  year  to  recover  from  that  last  shock. 
She's  aged  ten  years !  She  had  such  a  splendid 
appetite,  and  now  she  hardly  eats  anything  at  all. 
She's  merely  the  wreck  of  her  former  self. 
[Overcome  with  emotion.^  What  —  what  if  we 
should  lose  her? ! 

Adele.     But  Mama  Is  very  well. 

Marie.     There  you're  mistaken. 

Adele.     Not  at  all! 

Marie.  My  heart  tells  me  I  know  the  truth. 
You,  for  instance,  what  state  do  you  imagine  you 
are  in  now? 

Adele.     I'm  very  well. 

Marie.  Very  well?  My  dear  sister,  don't 
deceive  yourself:  you've  changed  vastly.  Mama 
and  I  have  spent  many  a  sleepless  night  worrying 
about  you  —  your  hollow  cheeks,  sunk  eyes, 
those  awful  headaches  of  yours!  You  look  like 
a  little  martyr!  You  might  easily  succumb  to  new 
shocks  —  the  life  your  husband  is  leading  might 

—  what  if  we  should  lose  you?  If  God  were  to 
take  you  from  us !  I'm  sick  at  the  very  thought ! 
No,  no,  not  that!  to  lose  you,  little  sister!  I  can't 
even  think  of  it!  —  Make  It  a  legal  separation, 
do! 

233 


FOUR  PLAYS 


Adele.  Don't  be  alarmed,  dear,  I'm  per- 
fectly well. 

Marie.     A  sister's  heart  cannot  be  mistaken! 

Adele.     But  it  is,  for  I'm  in  perfect  health. 

Marie.     Really? 

Adele.     Yes! 

Marie.     Then  — 

Adele.  Let's  not  say  anything  more  about 
it  — 

Marie.  You  certainly  are  to  be  pitied,  I 
understand  your  troubles  and  worries.  This 
everlasting  wrangling  is  a  terrible  thing  in  a  family 
like  ours.  The  situation  is  very  critical.  Now, 
you're  a  reasonable  person;  I  ask  you,  have  you 
the  right  to  drag  your  mother  and  sister  into  all 
this?     Sacrifice  us? 

AdJble.     What  —  you? 

Marie  [sweetly].  Yes,  me  !  You  really  must 
have  some  consideration  for  others.  I  at  least 
have  some  rights.  And  our  dear  mother  —  whom 
God  spare  to  us  a  long  while  yet !  —  cannot  live 
forever!  I  can't  allow  Albert  to  go  on  squan- 
dering money  as  he  does,  and  endanger  my 
own  future.  On  Mama's  death  I  am  to  get  300,- 
000  francs.  Up  to  now,  your  share  only  has  been 
touched  —  but  a  man  like  your  husband  wouldn't 
stop  short  of  taking  the  whole  fortune.  Your 
nephew  too  must  not  be  forgotten.  He  mustn't 
be  deprived  of  his  share.  No,  Mama  is  no  longer 
young,  and  I  must  think  of  these  things.  We 
must  keep  a  careful  guard  on  the  money  that  re- 
mains—  the  money  that  will  one  day  be  ours  — 
and  see  that  Mama  doesn't  use  it  up.  What  do 
you  say?     Tell  me. 

234 


THE  DUPE 


Adele  [energetically,  after  a  pause].  No,  I 
shall  not  ask  for  a  separation! 

Marie.     You're  wrong,  child. 

Adele.  But  you're  considering  only  the 
financial  side  of  the  question. 

Marie.  What  other  side  is  there  —  in  your 
relations  with  Albert? 

Adele.  A  great  deal  that  you  don't  seem  to 
take  into  account.  First  there  is  love,  the  basis  of 
family  life. 

Marie.     Money  is  the  basis  of  family  life. 

Adele.  I  don't  agree  with  you. —  Then  there's 
my  duty  as  a  Christian  wife:  I  should  stand  by 
my  husband  and  obey  him  — 

Marie.     How  about  your  mother? 

Adele.     Not  now  !     Anyway,  I  want  Albert ! 

Marie.     A  man  of  his  sort! 

Adele  [nettled].  Yes,  a  man  of  his  sort!  I 
advise  you  not  to  say  anything  against  him.  He's 
very  intelligent,  and  he's  a  hard  and  faithful 
worker.  That  engine  he  invented  —  it  was  all  in 
the  papers  —  not  every  one  can  do  that ! 

Marie  [also  nettled].  Do  you  say  that  for 
my  husband's  benefit? 

Adele.     For  him  —  and  everybody,  my  dear. 

Marie.  Gustave's  name  has  not  appeared  in 
the  newspapers,  but  he  might  have  it  if  he  liked ! 

Adele.     What  did  he  invent? 

Marie.     You  persist  in  attacking  him? 

Adele.  You  attacked  Albert;  I  don't  see  why 
I  shouldn't  do  the  same  to  Gustave? 

Marie.     But  — 

Adele  [tenderly].  Let's  drop  it,  please.  Al- 
bert is  good  to   me,   tender  and  loving.     Some- 

235 


FOUR  PLAYS 


times  he  caresses  me,  and  says  my  hair  is  prettier 
than  hers  —  the  other's.  And  I'm  so  grateful! 
I  think  him  charming,  and  he's  my  husband. 

Marie.     What  difterence  does  that  make? 

Adele.  I  love  him  !  If  you  want  to  know  the 
whole  truth:  I've  struggled  hard  —  I  may  be 
weak  —  but  I  am  In  the  right,  I  believe  —  I  be- 
long to  him  body  and  soul,  in  spite  of  his  infi- 
delity —  I  simply  can't  do  without  him. 

Marie  [disgusted].     Oh! 

Adele.  It's  all  very  well  for  you  to  talk,  with 
a  husband  like  yours! 

Marie.  If  Gustave  ever  deceived  me,  all 
would  be  over  between  us ! 

Adele.  Well,  I  forgave  my  husband.  I  once 
thought  of  leaving  him,  when  I  first  learned  the 
truth, —  put  an  end  to  everything  in  true  dramatic 
style.  I  tried  to  go  away,  but  you  and  Mama  per- 
suaded me  to  return  to  him.  Even  then  I  strug- 
gled against  my  inclinations,  I  hardly  spoke  a  word 
to  him, —  avoided  him.  I  even  went  to  my  con- 
fessor about  it.  My  youth,  my  enthusiasm  —  all 
—  in  time  I  again  became  his  wife,  and  I  was  only 
too  happy  to  find  that  he  still  had  some  affection 
for  me  ! 

Marie.  But  think  of  your  situation  now!  To 
think  that  Albert  brazenly  speaks  to  you  about  his 
mistress,  in  your  ordinary  conversation!  Con- 
sider what  your  love  will  lead  you  to!  You're 
only  a  tool  in  his  hands  —  you're  bound  hand  and 
foot.  See  what  your  weakness  has  already  cost 
you  !  How  much  more  may  it  cost!  Now  if  you 
would  only  consent  to  a  separation  — 

Adele.  No,  no,  no,  I'll  not  consent.  That 
236 


THE  DUPE 


would  be  too  terrible.  I  feel  positive  of  that.  I 
am  a  little  ashamed,  and  I  do  suffer;  perhaps  I'm 
condemning  myself  to  a  life  of  torture,  to  ruin  and 
misery  —  but  I  don't  care.  Call  it  passion,  worse 
than  passion;  Albert  is  necessary  to  my  life.  You 
may  tell  that  to  Mama,  to  your  husband,  to  every- 
body. Your  "  financial  "  questions  don't  inter- 
est me.  And  then,  you  ought  to  leave  me  with  my 
husband,  for  you  gave  him  to  me ! 

Marie  [after  a  paiise^.  Very  well!  I'm  not 
the  only  one  concerned.  I  am  authorized  to  say 
that  if  you  don't  consent  to  an  immediate  separa- 
tion, Mama  will  have  nothing  further  to  do  with 
you. 

Adele.     Mama? 

Marie.  Yes  —  she  is  very  angry  with  you. 
Now  what  do  you  say  ? 

Adele.     So  much  the  worse ! 

Marie.  Good.  Only  I  advise  you  to  per- 
suade your  husband  to  pay  his  debt.  Pressure 
may  be  brought  to  bear  on  him. 

Adele.  You  are  right.  It  will  be  very  hard, 
but  I'll  do  my  best.      I'll  sacrifice,  if  need  be. 

Marie.  You  know  my  feelings  toward  you, 
dearest.  Don't  consider  me:  I've  done  my  best 
to  smooth  things  over.  You  don't  blame  me,  do 
you?     I'd  be  so  sorry! 

Adele.  No,  my  dear  sister,  I  know  your  love 
for  me ! 

Marie.     Kiss  me. 

Adele  \_kissing  her].     With  all  my  heart! 

Marie.  And  now,  good-by.  Speak  to  your 
husband. 

Adele.     As  soon  as  he  comes. 
237 


FOUR  PLAYS 


[Alarie  goes  o///.] 

Adele.  Mama  have  nothing  more  to  do  with 
me?  How  queer  that  sounds  !  When  I  was  a  lit- 
tle girl  and  heard  about  children  falling  out  with 
their  parents,  it  seemed  ridiculous  —  especially  on 
the  part  of  the  children.  Now  here  /  am!  And 
am  I  really  to  blame?  Not  to  see  Mama  any 
more !  I  remember  when  she  took  me  to  school, 
and  scolded  me  in  the  street:  "Walk  quickly 
now,  or  we'll  be  late !  "  If  I  could  only  make  Al- 
bert pay!  He  could  if  he  wanted  to.  I'll  speak 
to  him  to-night.  I  hope  I'm  successful  this  time  I 
There  he  is  —  courage  ! 

[Enter  Albert.'] 

Adele.     Good  evening,  dear! 

Albert.     Good  evening. 

Adele.     I'm  so  glad  to  see  you ! 

Albert.     Is  dinner  nearly  ready? 

Adele.  It  isn't  time  yet.  No  —  only  half 
past  six. 

Albert.     I'm  very  busy:     I  must  go  out. 

Adele.      I'll  have  dinner  hurried. 

Albert.     Please. 

Adele.  You'll  like  the  dinner  —  too  bad  you 
haven't  much  time.  There's  some  lovely  lamb, 
with  potatoes  —  and  —  what  do  you  think? 
Souffle  with  apricots!      You  like  that,  don't  you? 

Albert.     Yes,  yes. 

Adeij:.  See  how  I  think  of  you!  But  that's 
not  all.  I  made  a  great  find  at  the  Bon  Marche. 
Guess? 

Albert.      I'm  no  good  at  guessing. 

Adele.  Ties:  the  kind  you  like  —  satin,  that 
you  tie  yourself. 

238 


THE  DUPE 


Albert.     Like  Colin's? 

Adele.     Isn't  that  the  kind  you  hke? 

Albert.     Oh,  yes,  they're  as  good  as  any  other. 

Adele.  They're  beautiful  shades:  two  blue 
ones  with  white  spots,  two  black  ones  with  blue 
figures.  You  can  wear  one  for  this  evening. 
Would  you  like  to  see  them? 

Albert.  I  don't  care.  Leave  them  in  my 
room. 

Adele.  I  got  you  some  gloves  too  —  you'll 
like  them  — 

Albert.     Yes,  yes,  good! 

Adele.  Nice  of  me,  wasn't  it?  You  can't  say 
I  don't  take  good  care  of  you,  can  you?  —  Why 
don't  you  kiss  your  wife? 

Albert.  There !  [He  kisses  her  perfunc- 
torily.    A  pause. ^ 

Adele.  Business  picking  up?  Are  you  more 
hopeful? 

Albert  {reading  a  newspaper].  About  the 
same. 

Adele.     No  rise? 

Albert.  No  rise,  no  rise.  You  can't  tell. 
Business  is  business,  it  changes  from  day  to  day. 
I  don't  like  to  discuss  these  matters  with  women: 
they  understand  nothing  about  it  all.  Let  me  read 
my  paper.      I'm  out  of  humor!      [A  pause.] 

Adele.  I  know  it's  not  pleasant,  but  while 
we're  on  the  subject,  you  must  remember  that  we 
owe  Mama  money:  150,000  francs,  of  which  we 
haven't  paid  back  one  sou. 

Albert.  I  advise  you  to  ask  for  money  now  1 
Caroline  asked  for  some  this  morning  —  Ha  ! 

Adele.  It  isn't  for  myself !  Mama  has  the 
239 


FOUR  PLAYS 


right    to    ask    for    her   money.      [Fcry    quietly. 1 
That  money  was  a  loan,  not  a  gift! 

Albert.  Your  mother  is  an  old  miser  —  I'll 
not  trouble  with  her! 

Adele.  Mama  wants  to  keep  the  family  for- 
tune intact.  She's  very  conservative  about  it;  she 
belongs  to  the  old  school.  She  would  never  get 
over  it  if  the  fortune  at  her  death  were  less  than 
what  it  was  when  she  inherited  it.  It's  only  to  her 
credit  that  she  feels  as  she  does. 

Albert.     I  tell  you  she's  an  old  miser! 

Adele.  That  doesn't  make  us  any  less  her 
debtors.  You  can't  imagine  how  worried  I  am 
over  this.  You  know  how  I  economize!  My 
household  expenses  are  very  small,  I  wear  dresses 
for  three  years,  our  table  is  quite  modest  —  two 
courses  at  each  meal  — .  And  yet  1  can't  save  up 
enough  to  pay  back  more  than  a  fraction.  If  you 
could  only  let  me  have  a  little  more  money.  You 
spend  a  great  deal  yourself  —  I'm  not  blaming 
you  —  that's  your  affair, —  only  if  you  could  econ- 
omize a  little?  If  I  could  just  give  back  a  thou- 
sand francs  !  It  would  be  a  load  off  my  shoulders  ! 
Think  if  she'd  have  nothing  more  to  do  with  us  — 

Albert.  I'll  pay  everything  back  in  due  time. 
Meanwhile  she  may  do  what  she  likes.  Do  you 
want  me  to  kill  myself  with  work  in  order  to  Hatter 
a  millionaire? 

Adele.      My  dear  good  sister  — 

Albert.  "Good"  sister!  Another  of  your 
notions! 

Adele.  However  that  may  be,  Marie  told  me 
just  now  that  Mama  was  very  angry  with  us. 

Albert.     She  can't  disinherit  you,   can  she? 
240 


THE  DUPE 


There's  the  law,  that's  all  that's  necessary.  I 
have  a  regular  contract,  thank  God! 

Adele.  You  might  try  to  be  on  good  terms 
with  her  I 

Albert.     To  be  grateful?     Rot! 

Adele.  No,  but  I  love  Mama,  and  I  want  to 
avoid  a  rupture. 

Albert.     Ha !     Ha ! 

Adele  [insisting].  Yet  —  we  owe  her  150,- 
000  francs.     Think  of  it  —  if  we  could  only  — 

Albert  [getting  angry].  That's  enough! 
And  your  mother  can  go  hang!  She's  been  stingy 
enough  lately.  When  I  used  to  be  in  need  of 
money,  I  managed  to  extract  fifteen  louis  from 
her  —  when  she  was  in  the  mood — .  There  was 
nothing  wrong  in  that:  I  merely  followed  the  ex- 
ample of  your  "  good  "  sister.  She  knows  how 
to  exploit  the  old  lady.  She  knows  every  move- 
ment—  she  keeps  mighty  close  watch!  How  do 
you  know  but  that  she'll  take  the  150,000  francs 
that  are  still  due  us?  By  God,  if  I  felt  sure  of 
that  I'd  wring  your  sister's  neck,  that  dear  sister 
who  bears,  as  she  says,  the  same  name  as  the  Holy 
Virgin  !  Little  good  it  does  me  if  I  ask  for  money 
occasionally.  Of  course,  yon  don't  care,  you're 
always  up  in  the  clouds !  It  doesn't  affect  you  !  / 
have  responsibilities  and  worries,  I  have  two  house- 
holds to  support!  With  you  and  Caroline — ! 
The  pair  of  you!  —  If  I  only  had  your  dowry 
now  — !  Ha!  It's  taken  flight  —  not  much,  for 
that  matter  —  a  little  two-by-four  dowry  that  kept 
us  hardly  two  years !  And  now  here  your  mother 
comes  asking  for  her  cursed  money !  Why 
doesn't  she  ask  me  to  support  her,  your  sister,  your 

241 


FOUR  PLAYS 


brother-in-law,  your  nephew  —  the  whole  crew?! 
I  see  they're  trying  to  make  a  fool  of  me.  That's 
what  they're  doing!  Let's  cut  it  short  now:  I 
won't  be  the  stalking  horse  for  the  family  — I 

Ax)ELE.     How  can  you  say  that,  dear? 

Albert.  I  repeat  it:  the  stalking-horse  of  the 
whole  family  1  And  I  thought  I  was  doing  a  good 
stroke  of  business!  Such  —  such  indelicacy  I 
And  she  spends  all  her  time  casting  that  damned 
150,000  francs  in  my  teeth.  A  pretty  state  of 
affairs!  And  how  I  get  blamed,  whew!  Simply 
because  they  did  me  a  favor  any  one  would  do ! 
As  a  rule  when  any  one  obliges  a  friend,  he  has 
the  common  decency  not  to  make  the  obligation 
felt.  The  lender  tries  to  make  the  borrower  for- 
get. It  should  be  a  pleasure  to  do  a  fellow-being 
a  service  —  the  offer  should  be  repeated!  It's 
one  of  the  joys  of  life,  and  I  pity  the  people  who 
can't  see  it  in  that  light.  But  this  business,  oh, 
my  1  And  with  me,  who  have  been  brought  up 
where  people  have  some  delicacy  of  sentiment  — 
Ha! 

Adele.     You  have  no  reason  to  complain. 

Albert.  Of  course  I  have.  How  can  I  live 
with  people  who  don't  understand  me?  I'm  pay- 
ing back  that  money  merely  by  remaining  among 
you.  And  a  fine  family  you  are!  Sitting  around 
all  day  knitting  socks  —  with  no  culture,  no  knowl- 
edge of  the  world.  A  mother  who  Is  a  miser,  a 
sister  not  very  different  from  her  —  a  brother-in- 
law — !  Savages!  —  And  do  you  imagine  that 
you  are  anything  remarkable?  Pretty?  You've 
lived  so  long  with  your  mother  that  you've  begun 
to  look  like  her.      1  sometimes  mistake  you  for 

242 


THE  DUPE 


her!  Intelligent,  splrituelle?  You  do  nothing  but 
make  trouble  in  the  family,  and  get  me  disliked! 
You  join  them  to  make  my  life  miserable!  If 
you  want  to  know  the  truth,  you're  a  little  fool, 
with  your  love  and  your  whimpering  and  your 
prayers  and  your  priests  and  your  God!  Good 
Lord  !  —  And  —  Then  our  having  no  children  — ! 
You  — !i 

Adele.     Albert! 

Albert.     Now  about  your  mother  — ! 

Adele  [crying,  but  vjith  energy].  No,  no, 
stop  it !  You  have  no  right  to  say  such  terrible 
things  about  people  who  never  did  you  wrong!  I 
know  you  don't  love  nw  —  but  I  won't  allow  you 
to  say  those  things  about  my  family  —  Never  ! 

Albert  [furiously].  And  I  tell  you  your 
mother  is  an  old  scarecrow,  do  you  hear? 

Adele  [choking].  I  advise  you  not  to  say  any- 
thing more  about  my  mother  before  me  — !  Nor 
before  any  one  else!  You  are  the  last  one  who 
has  a  right  to!  You  know  what  might  be  said  of 
you  — ! 

Albert  [eurac/ed'].     What? 

Adele.     You  know  very  well. 

Albert.     Say  it! 

Adele.  I  wouldn't  take  the  trouble!  I 
wouldn't ! 

Albert.     Go  on  —  I'd  just  like  to  hear. 

Adele.  Very  well,  then  —  you  have  —  stolen 
—  There ! 

1  The  exact  lines  ("Ton  bon  Dieu !  .  .  .  Couche  done  avec, 
puisque  tu  I'aimes  tant !  II  te  fera  peut-etre  un  enfant,  lui ! 
Dire  que  tu  n'as  pas  meme  ete  capable  de  faire  un  enfant!") 
are  of  a  brutality  so  revolting  that  I  have  substituted  a  milder 
line,  containing  something  of  the  spirit  of  the  original. —  Tr. 


FOUR  PLAYS 


Albert  \_menadngly^.  I'm  a  thief?  I'm  a 
thief?  Now  I'll  show  you  how  I  appreciate  the 
information ! 

/Vdele  [terrified].  What  —  what  are  you  go- 
ing to  do  ? 

Albert.     I'm  a  thief,  am  I  ? 

[He  seizes  her  by  the  shoulders.] 

Adele.     Albert  —  Albert  —  Don't ! 

Albert.  If  you  want  to  know:  I  detest  you, 
hate  you  !  Get  out,  now  !  Tv  e  seen  enough  of 
you  !     You  damned  — ! 

Adele.  Let  go !  Let  go !  You're  hurting 
me !  You  have  no  right  to  treat  me  like  this ! 
Oh!—     Help!     I'm—! 

Albert  [throiung  her  to  the  floor].     There  I 

Adele  [in  agony].  Oh!  [Albert  sits  down, 
Adele  slowly  rises.] 

Albert  [as  if  about  to  throw  her  down  again]. 
Get  out. 

[Adele  goes  out  at  the  back.] 

Albert  [calmly  lighting  a  cigarette].  Feel  re- 
lieved! [Dreamily].  I  suppose  she'll  ask  for  a 
separation  now ! 


[Curtain.] 


244 


ACT  V 

[  The  same  scene  as  in   the  preceding  acts. 
Adele,  Mme.  Viot,  and  Marie  are  present.^ 

Mme.  Viot.  And  how  are  you  this  evening, 
dear? 

Adele.     Still  a  bit  sick  —  it's  my  stomach. 

Mme.  Viot.  Come,  now,  it's  nothing  serious. 
You  imagine  much  worse  than  it  is.  How  you 
worry!  At  my  age  I  don't  like  to  hear  about  sick- 
ness, you  know.  Don't  pull  that  long  face  —  be 
gay.  We've  come  up  to  talk  over  a  serious  mat- 
ter. 

Adele.     All  right,  Mama. 

Marie.     Poor  child! 

Mme.  Viot.     What  are  you  working  at? 

Adele.     I'm  knitting  a  vest  for  the  poor. 

Mme.  Viot.  Lay  it  aside  and  listen  to  us. 
Marie,  will  you  begin? 

Marie.  No,  Mama,  I'd  rather  you  did.  In 
questions  of  money  I'm  so  stupid. 

Adele.     It's  about  money?     Still? 

Mme.  Viot.  Yes.  For  six  months  you've  been 
separated  from  your  husband  —  your  eyes  were 
opened  at  last.  You've  been  living  practically 
with  us,  but  now  you  must  establish  yourself 
permanently,  so  that  the  rights  of  all  of  us  shall 
not  suffer.  At  first  I  had  thought  of  taking  you 
with  us,  but  our  habits,  our  manner  of  living,  are 

245 


FOUR  PLAYS 


so  different !  You  are,  you  must  admit,  a  little 
hard  to  get  along  with  —  you  are  wilful,  head- 
strong—  we  couldn't  get  on  well,  I  fear.  Then 
if  I  took  you  it  would  be  as  much  as  a  confession  of 
defeat  before  the  world,  and  I  don't  want  people 
to  imagine  that  anything's  wrong  —  for  the  salce 
of  the  good  name  of  the  family.  In  case  they  do 
suspect,  I  don't  want  to  have  it  said  that  I  was  to 
blame.  Here's  what  we've  decided,  your  sister 
and  I :  we  want  you  to  live  here,  by  yourself,  com- 
fortably and  respectably. 

Marie.  Each  of  us  in  his  own  home  —  that's 
the  best  way. 

Mme.  Viot.  It's  easy  to  see  that  you  can't  count 
on  that  2,000  francs'  alimony  your  husband  should 
pay  you.  I  know  very  well  he  can't  afford  the 
money.  We've  therefore  arranged  to  allow  you 
an  income  of  5,000  francs  a  year.  The  capital 
will  be  yours:  about  150,000  francs  —  your  share 
of  the  family  fortune.  That's  the  easiest  way: 
then  I  shan't  be  bothered  with  continual  requests 
for  assistance.  You  may  have  your  breakfasts 
with  me.      Isn't  that  fair? 

Adele.     Yes,  Mama,  I  see  — 

Mme.  Viot.  You  don't  seem  very  satisfied. 
We've  made  out  a  complete  budget  for  you.  Lis- 
ten: 5,000  francs  a  year  is  416  francs  30  cen- 
times a  month.  That's  a  good  round  sum ! 
Household  expenses  for  yourself  and  two  serv- 
ants — 

Adele.     I'll  not  need  the  butler. 

Mme.  Viot.  And  stay  alone  with  the  maid? 
Never!  You  must  think  of  appearances!  This 
money  Is  not  for  amusements,  you  understand  — 

246 


THE  DUPE 


not  to  allow  you  to  knit  vests  for  the  poor  —  you 
must  live  so  that  no  one  can  point  a  finger  at  us. 
To  continue :  household  expenses  for  you  and  two 
servants:  150  francs.  That's  plenty.  Wages: 
130  francs.  That  leaves  136  —  say  130. 
Clothes:  nothing  —  nothing,  too,  for  the  upkeep 
of  the  house.  As  you  make  your  own  dresses,  and 
take  good  care  not  to  burn  too  much  gas  —  you'll 
have  more  than  enough.  For  that  matter,  you'll 
be  richer  than  I !  But  you  can't  do  as  you  did  at 
my  place  at  lunch  to-day  —  order  a  boiled  egg 
when  there  were  plenty  of  fried  potatoes.  An 
egg  is  an  egg. 

Adele.      I  wasn't  feeling  well  this  morning  — 

Mme.  Viot.  We'll  let  that  pass.  Now  for  your 
present  lease :  I'll  leave  that  to  you.  I  hope  you 
will  allow  me  to  pay  as  little  as  possible.  You 
see,  you're  really  living  on  us.      Don't  forget  that ! 

Adele.  No,  Mama,  I  shan't.  Only,  while 
we're  on  the  subject,  there's  one  thing  I  should  like 
to  say.  If  I  keep  this  apartment,  5,000  francs 
will  be  nothing  at  all  —  if  I  continue  to  live  in  the 
same  style  as  before.  With  all  your  money, 
couldn't  you  afford — ? 

Mme.  Viot.  No,  certainly  not  —  if  you  begin 
to  beg  again  — 

Adele.  Consider  that  I've  said  nothing,  if  you 
get  angry  with  me ! 

Mme.  Viot.  Well,  I  am.  You're  always  that 
way:  you're  never  satisfied.  Haven't  I  done 
enough  for  you?  If  your  children  cost  you  as 
much  as  mine,  I  advise  you  to  have  very  few ! 
That  is,  if  you'd  like  to  have  a  bite  to  eat  in  your 
old  age ! 

247 


FOUR  PLAYS 


Adele  [sobbiug.l  Mama,  Mama,  are  you 
blaming  me  for  all  that's  happened?  I  can't  say 
a  thing  now,  it  seems,  without  your  flying  into  a 
rage !      It's  dreadful. 

MiME.  VioT.  It's  more  dreadful  to  be  drained 
of  your  money,  the  way  I've  been! 

Adele.     Is  that  my  fault? 

Mme.  Viot.  Perhaps  it's  mine?  I  advise  you 
to  complain !  I've  had  a  fine  time  between  you 
and  that  husband  of  yours !  A  fine  specimen  you 
brought  into  the  family ! 

Adele.     Who  picked  him  out  for  me? 

Mme.  Viot.  You  should  have  resisted,  or  else 
managed  to  get  along  with  him  better,  instead  of 
always  taking  his  part  against  me!  You've  ad- 
mired him  so  much  that  you  begin  to  look  like  him  ! 
When  I  look  at  you,  I  tell  you,  I  think  it's  he  him- 
self—! 

Adele.     But  — 

Mme.  Viot.  Of  course,  in  one  way  he's  a  nice 
fellow  —  I  can't  deny  that.  He  always  behaved 
very  decently  to  me.  Only,  like  all  men,  he  had 
to  be  led  with  a  string.  You  spoiled  him,  you  let 
him  go  —  through  your  own  weakness.  You 
thought  him  wonderful,  distinguished!  When  I 
think  of  a  daughter  of  mine  being  so  —  so  much 
the  slave  of  her  passions  —  Oh  !  Like  a  common 
woman  of  the  streets!  That's  the  ruination  of 
families!  You  think  it's  all  very  well  —  you 
didn't  have  to  pay  the  piper!  You  just  put  your 
hand  in  other  people's  pockets  — ! 

Adele.     Mama! 

Marie  [apparoiily  much  moved].  Now, 
now!  — 

248 


THE  DUPE 


Mme.  Viot.  To  think  of  all  I  was  going  to  do 
with  my  money  —  I  had  a  splendid  opportunity  — 
some  stocks  your  poor  father  bought  dirt-cheap 
just  after  the  Revolution  of  '48.  I  had  a  lot  of 
Bank  of  France  stocks  —  I'd  saved  up  for  twenty 
years  to  buy  them.  Everybody  said  I  was  very 
lucky  to  get  them.  My  friend,  Mme.  Renaudy, 
would  have  given  anything  to  have  them !  Then 
the  Andaliisian  Railway  —  no,  those  you  let  me 
keep !  Thanks !  Then  the  Paris-Lyons,  Medi- 
terranean, and  the  Orleans  Railway!  And 
the  Eastern!  Thanks  to  you,  the  fortune  laid  up 
by  generation  after  generation  of  honest  men,  and 
which  I  was  proud  to  guard,  has  now  dwindled  so 
that  I  am  actually  ashamed  —  it's  never  happened 
before  in  our  family  —  and  now! — while  I  was 
administering  it  — ! 

Adele  [sobbing].  I  —  I  wish  I  had  died 
long  ago,  and  spared  you  all  this  trouble  you're 
now  blaming  me  for ! 

Mme.  Viot  [furiously].  Good  Heavens, 
there  are  times  when  I  wonder  whether  it  wouldn't 
have  been  better! 

Adele  [sadly].     Oh! 

Marie.  Mama !  Think  of  what  you're  say- 
ing!     Poor  Adele ! 

[J  long  pause.] 

Mme.  Viot.  Now,  for  all  these  reasons  you  are 
to  have  5,000  francs'  income,  and  not  another  sou 
—  you  ought  to  be  thankful  for  that!  I  ask  only 
one  thing:  that  you  will  leave  the  capital  — 
150,000  francs  —  to  Marie.  You  understand? 
To  no  one  else !  I  don't  want  that  money  to  go 
out  of  the  family.     Enough  has  gone  already. 

249 


FOUR  PLAYS 


Marie.  I  don't  want  to  take  advantage  of 
your  generosity,  dear.  I  ask  only  one  thing  of 
Heaven:  to  take  me  before  it  does  you.  I 
couldn't  survive  you!      I  couldn't! 

MiME.  ViOT.     Then,  you  agree? 

Adele.     Yes,  Mama. 

MiME.  ViOT.  No  dividing  the  capital!  No 
remembrances  or  presents? 

Adele.     No,  Mama. 

Mme.  Viot.  It's  nine  o'clock,  I'm  going  home 
—  I  have  to  figure  up  my  accounts.  Oh,  here  are 
300  francs,  you  may  pay  me  back  out  of  your  al- 
lowance. \^Pointing  to  the  notes  she  has  given 
Adi'le.^  Count  them  —  I  might  be  cheating 
you  !  —  To-morrow  we'll  begin  our  new  life  :  come 
to  lunch.  You  may  have  boiled  eggs.  Good- 
night.     Don't  be  extravagant,  now ! 

Marie  [/o  /J dele].  Good-night,  dear.  I'm 
going  home :  my  husband's  waiting  for  me. 

[Mine.  Viot  and  Marie  kiss  Adele,  and  go  out.] 

Adele.  Five  thousand  francs !  How  can  I 
ever  live  on  it?  And  they  told  me  w^hen  I  was 
married  I  should  have  a  hundred  thousand  a  year 
some  day!  Five  thousand!  Well,  I  must  do  my 
best!  [A  pause.]  And  he?  What  is  he  do- 
ing? What  will  become  of  him?  Marie  says 
her  husband  is  waiting  for  her  —  I  must  stay  here 
alone!  —  If  I  only  heard  something  of  him!  — 
But  if  I  must  become  used  to  the  thought  of  doing 
without  him,  1  must.  I  shall,  in  time.  I've  been 
pretty  philosophical  about  it  all  lately.  My  life 
from  now  on  will  be  lonely,  1  see  that,  but  quiet 
and  peaceful.  I  can  at  least  take  care  of  the  lit- 
tle money  I  have, —  That's  something.     What  is 

250 


THE  DUPE 

the  matter  with  me  to-night?  I'm  a  coward!  — 
Where  can  he  be?     What  is  he  doing? 

[Enter  Albert,  looking  aged  and  ill-kempt.] 

Adele.     You?! 

Albert.  Yes,  I.  Don't  call!  You  have 
nothing  to  be  afraid  of  — 

Adele.     If  Mama  knew  — ! 

Albert.  She's  safe  at  home  by  now.  I'll  not 
stay  long. 

Adele.     Why  have  you  come  ? 

Albert.  First  to  find  out  how  you  were:  — 
you're  not  well,  are  you? 

Adele.     No  —  but  you  can't  stay  here  ! 

Albert.  Stop,  I  have  something  important  to 
say  to  you.  I  see  my  presence  is  disagreeable  to 
you  —  so  I'll  stay  only  a  moment. —  You  must 
have  forgiven  me  by  now?  You  know  I  was  all 
out  of  humor  that  day !  I'm  not  usually  like  that ! 
You  don't  blame  me,  do  you?     Do  you? 

Adele  [after  a  pause].     How  do  I  know? 

Albert.  See  —  you  don't  really  blame  me. — 
[J  pause.] 

Adele  [looking  at  him].  What  is  the  mat- 
ter? 

Albert.  Things  haven't  gone  well.  I've  had 
no  luck.      I'm  not  like  every  one. 

Adele.     What  do  you  mean? 

Albert.  Ah,  that's  so:  you're  not  to  be  en- 
vied, yourself ! 

Adele.     Now,  what  have  you  come  for? 

Albert.     Well  —  may  I  sit  down? 

Adele.     Yes. 

Albert.  After  the  separation  I  went  on  with 
my    work    at    the    office.     Then  —  well,    I    was 

251 


FOUR  PLAYS 


unfortunate  —  the  cash-box  —  Oh,  nothing  much 
this  time:  10,000  francs!  I  was  found  out  and 
shown  the  door.  They  were  decent  enough  to 
me  —  they  didn't  let  it  get  about.  Only  I  was 
out  of  a  job.  Then  I  lived  from  hand  to  mouth 
—  translated,  addressed  envelopes  for  circulars. 
See  that  pamphlet  on  the  table?  I  wrote  the  ad- 
dress. Didn't  you  recognize  my  writing?  — 
Then  I  —  I've  come  to  ask  you  to  loan  me  a  lit- 
tle—  until  I  get  on  my  feet  again.  Only  till 
then!  Your  mother  must  give  you  an  allowance? 
It  would  be  a  great  help  to  me.  If  I  don't  have 
300  francs  to-night,  God  only  t;nows  what'U  hap- 
pen to  me ! 

Adele.  Three  hundred  francs!  That's  a 
whole  month's  allowance.  I  don't  keep  things  on 
the  scale  we  used  to ! 

Albert.     Is  that  all  you  have  ? 

Adele.  Not  a  sou  more!  Mama  gave  me  a 
capital  of  150,000  francs!      Figure  it  up! 

Albert.  Then  you  can't  let  me  have  any- 
thing? 

Adele.     If  I  did,  how  could  I  live? 

Albert.     There's  your  mother!     [A  paiise.^ 

Adele.  Tell  me  the  truth:  are  those  300 
francs  for  yourself? 

Albert  [vivaciously].  Yes,  yes.  Don't  imag- 
ine they're  for  her!     I  promise,  I  never  see  her! 

Adele.  There's  no  need  defending  yourself  so 
hotly!      If  it's  true,  why  I  — 

Albert.     Well  — 

Adele.     Be  frank,  I'd  rather  you  were. 

Albert  [after  a  pause].  Well,  yes,  it  is  for 
her! 

252 


THE  DUPE 

Adele.     Ah ! 

Albert.  Jealous?  What  difference  can  that 
make  to  you  now?  We're  separated.  But  you 
needn't  think  I'm  happy.  What  scenes,  what 
wailing  —  pitched  battles!  [Sobbing.]  This 
morning  she  left  me !  Stay  with  me,  Adele ! 
Don't  send  me  away!  You  are  good!  It's  a 
great  relief  to  confide  in  you !  —  Yes,  she  left  me. 
I  went  there  this  morning  at  eleven,  as  I  usually 
do,  for  lunch.  I  kissed  her,  and  then  she  asked 
me  the  first  thing  whether  I  had  the  300  francs 
I'd  promised.  I  told  her  I  hadn't.  Then,  with- 
out a  word,  she  said:  "  Get  out,  you  old  fool!  " 
—  She,  she  who  told  me  I  was  the  dearest  being 
to  her  in  the  world!  My  God,  Adele!  I  don't 
know  what  to  do  !  — 

Adele  [after  a  pause].  There,  there,  don't 
go  on  like  that!      Here's  your  money,  take  it! 

Albert.  You're  an  angel!  You  understand 
me! 

Adele.  Yes,  I  do  understand  you  —  better 
than  you  imagine.  You  love  that  woman  the  way 
I  have  loved  you ! 

Albert.  Thank  you,  thank  you.  You  are 
good!  If  you  knew  what  it  cost  me  to  ask  you 
for  money !  I  was  afraid  of  your  mother. —  Now 
let's  talk  about  something  else. —  How  are  you? 
Stomach  still  trouble  you?  You  don't  look  very 
sick.      Do  you  take  good  care  of  yourself? 

Adele.  Yes  —  only  you  had  better  go  now. 
If  Mama  were  to  know  I  had  received  you,  and 
given  you  money,  she  Avould  never  forgive  me. 

Albert.  One  minute  more!  It's  so  com- 
fortable here.     You  don't  seem  to  realize  it,  but 

253 


FOUR  PLAYS 


I'm  mighty  glad  to  see  you  again!  And  are  you 
glad—? 

Adele  [ivith  deep  fccli}i(f].     T  am! 

Albert  [^aily].     Tell  me,  your  mother — ? 

Adele.     Yes,  my  mother? 

Albert.     She's  not  nice  to  you,  eh? 

Adele.  She  must  lay  the  blame  on  some  one 
for  all  the  money  she's  lost.  She  blames  me  for 
having  married  you  —  she  says  I  was  too  easily 
influenced  by  you.  She  was  right,  too.  You 
knew  how  to  get  anything  you  liked  from  me  — 
I'd  have  let  you  get  every  sou  I  had.  But  I  be- 
lieve all  women  who  loved  as  I  did  are  like  me. 
My  mother  is  wrong  in  putting  all  the  blame  on 
me.      I  have  suffered — ! 

Albert.  But  with  all  her  money  —  and  she 
has  more  than  you  think  —  she's  allowed  you  only 
5,000  francs?     The  old  — ! 

Adele  [smilinffl.     Not  a  sou  more. 

Albert.  You  might  occasionally  get  a  little 
more. 

Adele.  Yes,  but  what  a  time  I'd  have ! 
Mama  is  positively  ferocious. 

Albert.  I'm  really  surprised  she  doesn't  ask 
you  to  cut  down  expenses ! 

Adele.     She  does! 

Albert.     No? 

Adele.     Yes,  she  does. 

Albert.     Well,  I  never!     Such  stinginess! 

Adele.  They  are  a  little  careful!  It's  sim- 
ply their  nature. 

Albert.     Not  much  like  me! 

Adele  [smiling  gcuiaily^.  I  should  think  not! 
254 


THE  DUPE 

Albert.     Makes  you  laugh,  doesn't  it? 

Adele.     It  all  seems  so  long  ago. 

Albert,  Poor  dear!  Always  so  patient  and 
sweet!  —  And  I,  I'm  not  really  so  terrible,  after 
all.  Luck's  been  against  me,  that's  all.  You 
know  I  loved  you  —  infinitely  more  than  I  did  the 
other.  My  pleasantest  hours  have  been  passed 
with  you.  But,  then,  you  can't  fight  against 
your  destiny,  that  has  been  my  misfortune.  Dear 
Adele. 

Adele  [troubled].  Don't  let's  think  of  the 
past.  We  must  be  reasonable  —  you  must  go 
now  — 

Albert.     So  soon? 

Adele.  Yes,  you  must.  No  good  will  come 
of  our  staying  together. 

Albert.  I'll  go,  then,  but  not  before  I've 
kissed  you  and  thanked  you.  I  owe  you  at  least 
that!     Will  you  let  me? 

Adele  [aUo'vcing  him  to  kiss  her].  If  you 
like. 

Albert.  On  the  neck  —  as  I  used  to,  when  I 
was  in  a  good  humor  —  remember?  [He  kisses 
her.]      Nice,  eh? 

Adele  [overcome].  Stop,  stop,  Albert! 
[Recoiling.]      Stop,  now ! 

Albert  [looking  at  her,  and  understanding 
her  feelings].  What?  Can  you  really — ? 
You  know  —  we  might  —  see  one  another  from 
time  to  time?     Nothing  would  please  me  better! 

Adele  [terrified].  No,  no!  You  mustn't! 
What  would  —  ?     Then  I  — 

Albert.     Yes? 

255 


FOUR  PLAYS 


Adele  [in  an  undertone].  You  want  to  take 
advantage  of  my  weakness,  get  money  from  me 
—  as  before !  YouVe  not  losing  sight  of  those 
150,000  francs!  You've  once  driven  me  to  mis- 
ery and  despair,  but  you  won't  a  second  time ! 

Albert.  That  thought  never  entered  my 
head! 

Adele.  Perhaps  not  to-day  —  but  it  would 
come  to  that ! 

Albert  [approaching  her~\.  You  are  not  very 
kind!^ 

Adele.     Go  away,  please  ! 

Albert.     I'm  going,  I'm  going. —  Good-by! 

Adele.  Good-by !  [Stopping  him  on  the 
threshold.]  Still,  if  you  absolutely  need  to  see 
me  sometimes  —  for  a  good  reason — ? 

Albert  [ironically].     A  good  reason? 

Adele.  Don't  come  here  —  Mama  might  see 
you,  or  the  servants  — 

Albert.     Where,  then? 

Adele.  Write  me  a  note  and  arrange  a  meet- 
ing-place.     Perhaps  I'll  go —  I'll  think  it  over. 

Albert.     Good!     But  where  can  I  meet  you? 

Adele.  I  don't  know  —  it  makes  no  differ- 
ence. 

Albert.  The  devil!  Out  of  the  question  at 
my  place.  It's  a  tiny  hole  in  the  BatignoUes  dis- 
trict. No!  I  shouldn't  allow  my  wife  to  be 
humiliated  there!  Perhaps  —  I've  been  thinking 
of  setting  up  a  ground-floor  apartment.  But  I'm 
not  very  sure.  I  must  decide  —  might  see  you 
then!?  Oh,  I  insist  on  paying  all  the  rent! 
Good,  that's  it,  then !  As  soon  as  I  can  have  you 
there,  I'll  write.     You'll  not  have  to  wait  long! 

256 


THE  DUPE 


But  you  will  come,  won't  you?     Promise!     Good! 
See  you  soon,  then!      [He  goes  oiit.^ 

Adele  [after  a  pause].     But  will  he  write? 


[Curtain.] 


END  OF  THE  PLAY 


257 


A    SELECTED    LIST 

OF 

DRAMATIC 
LITERATURE 


PUBLISHED  BY 

STEWART  &  KIDD  COMPANY 

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DRAMATIC  LITERATURE 


The  Antigone  of  Sophocles 

By  PROF.  JOSEPH  EDWARD  HARRY 


An  acting  I'ersion  of  this  most  perfect  of  all  dramas. 
A  scholarly  ivork  in  readable  English.  Especiallly 
adaptable  for  Colleges,  Dramatic  Societies,  etc. 

Post  Express,  Rochester: 

"He  has  done  his  work  well."  "Professor  Harry 
has  translated  with  a  virile  force  that  is  almost  Shake- 
spearean." "The  difficult  task  of  rendering  the 
choruses  into  English  lyrical  verse  has  been  very  cred- 
itably accomplished." 

Argonaut,  San  Francisco: 

"Professor  Harry  is  a  competent  translator  not 
only  because  of  his  classical  knowledge,  but  also  be- 
cause of  a  certain  enthusiastic  sympathy  that  shows 
itself  in  an  unfailing  choice  of  words  and  expression." 

North  American,  Philadelphia: 

"Professor  Harry,  teacher  of  Greek  in  the  Cincin- 
nati University,  has  written  a  new  metrical  transla- 
tion of  the  Antigone  of  Sophocles.  The  translation 
is  of  fine  dramatic  quality." 

Oregonian,  Portland: 

"A  splendidly  executed  translation  of  the  celebrated 
Greek  tragedy." 

Herald,  Boston: 

"Scholars  will  not  need  to  be  urged  to  read  this 
noteworthy  piece  of  literary  work,  and  we  hope  that 
many  others  who  have  no  special  scholarly  interest 
will  be  led  to  its  perusal." 

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ii 


European   Dramatists 


By  ARCHIBALD  HENDERSON 
Author  of  "George  Bernard  Shaw:  His  Life  and  Works." 

In   the   present  ivork   the   famous   dramatic   critic   and 

biographer    of    Shaiu    has    considered    six    representative 

dramatists  outside  of  the   United  States,  some  living,  some 

dead — Strindberg,   Ibsen,  Maeterlinck,    IVilde,   Shaw   and 

Barker. 

Velma  Swanston  Howard  says: 

"Prof.  Henderson's  appraisal  of  Strindberg  is  cer- 
tainly the  fairest,  kindest  and  most  Impersonal  that 
I  have  yet  seen.  The  author  has  that  rare  combina- 
tion of  intellectual  power  and  spiritual  insight  which 
casts  a  clear,  strong  light  upon  all  subjects  under  his 
treatment." 

Baltimore  Evening  Sun: 

"Prof.  Henderson's  criticism  is  not  only  notable  for 
its  understanding  and  good  sense,  but  also  for  the 
extraordinary   range   and   accuracy  of  its  information." 

Jeanette  L.  Gilder,  in  the  Chicago  Tribune: 

"Henderson  is  a  writer  who  throws  new  light  on 
old  subjects." 

Chicago  Record  Herald: 

"His  essays  in  interpretation  are  welcome.  Mr. 
Henderson  has  a  catholic  spirit  and  writes  without 
parochial  prejudice — a  thing  deplorably  rare  among 
American  critics  of  the  present  day.  *  *  *  One  finds 
that  one  agrees  with  Mr.  Henderson's  main  conten- 
tions and  is  eager  to  break  a  lance  with  him  about 
minor  points,  which  is  only  a  way  of  saying  that  he  is 
stimulating,  that  he  strikes  sparks.  He  knows  his  age 
thoroughly  and  lives  in  it  with  eager  sympathy  and 
understanding." 

Providence  Journal: 

"Henderson  has  done  his  work,  within  its  obvious 
limitations,  in  an  exceedingly  competent  manner.  He 
has  the  happy  faculty  of  making  his  biographical 
treatment  interesting,  combining  the  personal  facts  and 
a  fairly  clear  and  entertaining  portrait  of  the  indi- 
vidual with  Intelligent  critical  comment  on  his  artistic 
work." 

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DRAMATIC  LITERATURE 


At  Last 

You  May  Understand 

Cj,  £,  o. 

Perhaps  once  in  a  generation  a  figure  of  commanding 
greatness  appears,  one  through  whose  life  the  history  of 
his  time  may  be  read.  There  is  but  one  such  man  to- 
day. 

George  Ben/ard  Shaw 

HIS  LIFE  AND  WORKS 

A  CRITICAL  BIOGRAPHY  (Authorized) 

By 
ARCHIBALD  HENDERSON,  M.A.Ph.D. 

Is  virtually  the  story  of  the  social,  economic  and 
aesthetic  life  of  the  last  twenty-five  years.  It  is  a  sym- 
pathetic, yet  independent  interpretation  of  the  most  po- 
tent individual  force  in  society.  Cultivated  America  will 
find  here  the  key  to  all  that  is  baffling  and  elusive  in 
Shaw;  it  is  a  cinematographic  picture  of  his  mind  with  a 
background  disclosing  all  the  formative  influences  that 
combined  to  produce  this  universal  genius. 

The  press  of  the  ivorlJ  has  united  in  its  praise;  let  us 
send  you  some  of  the  comments.  It  is  a  lari^e  demy  Svo 
<volume  cloth,  i^ilt  top,  62S  pages,  iL-ith  S5  f'^H  pCK''  illus- 
trations in  color,  photoi^ravure  and  halftone  and  numerous 
pictures  in  the  text. 

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A  Few  Critical  Reviews  of 

George    Bernard  Shaw 

His  Life  and  Works 
A  Critical  Biography  (Authorized) 
By  ARCHIBALD  HENDERSON,  M.A.,  Ph.D. 
The  Dial: 

"In   over  five   hundred  pages,   with   an   energy   and 
carefulness    and    sympathy    which    deserve    high    com- 
mendation.   Dr.    Henderson    has    presented    his    subject 
from  all  conceivable  angles." 
The  Bookman: 

"A   more   entertaining   narrative,   whether    in   biog- 
raphy or  fiction,  has  not  appeared  in  recent  years." 
The  Independent: 

"Whatever  George  Bernard  Shaw  may  think  of  his 
Biography   the   rest   of   the  world   will    probably   agree 
that  Dr.  Henderson  has  done  a  good  job." 
Boston  Transcript: 

"There  is  no  exaggeration  in  saying  it  is  one  of  the 
most   entertaining    biographies    of    these   opening   years 
of  the  Twentieth  Century." 
Bernard  Shaw: 

"You   are   a  genius,   because  you   are  somehow   sus- 
ceptible   to    the    really    significant    and    diiferentiating 
traits  and  utterances  of  your  subject." 
Maurice  Maeterlinck: 

"You  have  written  one  of  the  most  sagacious,  most 
acute   and   most   penetrating  essays   in   the  whole  mod- 
ern moment." 
Edwin  Markham: 

"He   stands    to-day    as    the    chief    literary   critic    of 
the   South,   and   in   the  very  forefront  of  the  critics   of 
tlie  nation." 
William   Lyon   Phelps: 

"Your  critical  biography  of  Shaw  is  a  really  great 
work." 
Richard    Burton: 

"In  over  five  hundred  pages,  with  an  energy  and 
carefulness  and  sympathy  which  deserves  high  com- 
mendation. Dr.  Henderson  has  presented  his  subject 
from  all  conceivable  angles.  *  *  *  Intensely  interest- 
ing *  *  *  sound  and  brilliant,  full  of  keen  insight  and 
happy  turns  of  statement.  *  *  *  This  service  Professor 
Henderson's  book  does  perform;  and  I  incline  to  call  it 
a  great  one." 


DRAMATIC  LITERATURE 


Short  Plays 


By  MARY  MAC  MILLAN 
To  fill  a  long- felt  ivant.     All  have   been  successfully 

presented.     Suitable    for    Jf'omen's    Clubs,    Girls'    Schools, 

etc.     While    elaborate    enough    for    big   presentation,   they 

may  be  given  very  simply. 

Review  of  Reviews: 

"Mary  MacMillan  offers  'Short  Plays,'  a  collec- 
tion of  pleasant  one  to  three-act  plays  for  women's 
clubs,  girls'  schools,  and  home  parlor  production. 
Some  are  pure  comedies,  others  gentle  satires  on 
women's  faults  and  foibles.  'The  Futurists,'  a  skit 
on  a  woman's  club  in  the  year  1882,  is  highly  amus- 
ing. 'Entr'  Act'  is  a  charming  trifle  that  brings  two 
quarreling  lovers  together  through  a  ridiculous  pri- 
vate theatrical.  'The  Ring'  carries  us  gracefully  back 
to  the  days  of  Shakespeare;  and  'The  Shadowed  Star,' 
the  best  of  the  collection,  is  a  Christmas  Eve  tragedy. 
The  Star  is  shadowed  by  our  thoughtless  inhumanity 
to  those  w'ho  serve  us  and  our  forgetfulness  of  the 
needy.  The  Old  Woman,  gone  daft,  who  babbles  in 
a  kind  of  mongrel  Kiltartan,  of  the  Shepherds,  the 
Blessed  Babe,  of  the  Fairies,  rowan  berries,  roses  and 
dancing,  while  her  daughter  dies  on  Christmas  Eve,  is 
a  splendid  characterization." 

Boston   Transcript: 

"Those  who  consigned  the  writer  of  these  plays  to 
solitude  and  prison  fare  evidently  knew  that  'needs 
must'  is  a  sharp  stimulus  to  high  powers.  If  we  find 
humor,  gay  or  rich,  if  we  find  brilliant  wit;  if  we 
find  constructive  ability  joined  with  dialogue  which 
moves  like  an  arrow ;  if  we  find  delicate  and  keen 
characterization,  with  a  touch  of  genius  in  the  choice 
of  names;  if  we  find  poetic  power  which  moves  on 
easy  wing — the  gentle  jailers  of  the  writer  are  justi- 
fied, and  the  gentle  reader  thanks  their  severity." 

Salt  Lake  Tribune: 

"The  Plays  are  ten  in  number,  all  of  goodly  length. 
We    prophesy    great   things    for    this   gifted    ilramatist." 

Bookseller,  News  Dealer  &  Stationer: 

"The    dialogue    is    permeated    with    graceful    satire, 
snatches    of   wit,    picturestiue    phraseology,    and    tender, 
often  ex(juisite,  expressions  of  sentiment." 
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The   Gift 

A  Poetic  Drama 
By  MARGARET  DOUGLAS  ROGERS 

A   dramatic  poem   in  tiuo  acts,   treating  in   altogether 
neiv    fas/lion    the   ivorld    old   story    of   Pandora,    the    first 
ivoman. 
New  Haven  Times  Leader: 

"Well   written   and   attractive." 
E V angelical  Messenger: 

"A    very    beautifully   written    portrayal    of    the    old 
story  of  Pandora." 
Roctiester  Post  Dispatch: 

"There   is  much  poetic  feeling  in  the  treatment  of 
the  subject." 
Grand  Rapids  Herald: 

"The     Gift,     dealing    with    this    ever    interesting 
mythological  story,  is  a  valuable  addition  to  the  dramas 
of  the   day." 
St.  Xavier  Calendar: 

"The  story  of  Pandora   is  so  set  down   as  to  bring 
out    its    stage    possibilities.     Told    by    Mrs.    Rogers    in 
exquisite   language." 
Salt  Lake  Tribune: 

"The  tale  is  charmingly  wrought  and  has  possibil- 
ities as  a  simple  dramatic  production,  as  well  as  being 
a  delightful  morsel  of  light  reading." 
Cincinnati  Enquirer: 

"The    love   story  is   delightfullj'   told    and   the  dra- 
matic action  of  the  play  is  swift  and  strong." 
Buffalo  Express: 

"It  is  a  delightful  bit  of  fancy  with  a  dramatic  and 
poetic  setting." 
Boston  Woman's  Journal: 

"Epimetheus  and  Pandora  and  her  box  are  charm- 
ingly presented." 
Worcester  Gazette: 

"It  is  absolutely  refreshing  to  find  a  writer  willing 
to  risk  a  venture  harking  back  to  the  times  of  the 
Muses  and  the  other  worthies  of  mythological  fame. 
*  *  *  The  stor)'  of  Pandora's  box  told  in  verse  by  a 
woman.  It  may  be  said  it  could  not  have  been  better 
written  had  a  representative  of  the  one  who  only  as- 
sisted at  the  opening  been  responsible  for  the  play." 
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DRAMATIC  LITERATURE 


Lucky  Pehr 

By  AUGUST  STRINDBERG 

Authorized   Translation   by   I'elma  Sivanston  Iloi^ard. 

An   allegorical   drama   in   five  ads.     Compared    favorably 

to    Barrie's    "Peter    Pan"    and    Maeterlinck's    "The    Blue 

Bird.'' 

/Rochester  Post  Express: 

Strindberg  lias  written  many  pla\s  which  might  be 
described  as  realistic  nightmares.  But  this  remark  does 
not  apply  to  "Lucky  Pehr."  *  *  *  This  drama  is  one 
of  the  most  favorable  specimens  of  Strindberg's 
genius. 

New   York   World: 

"Pehr"  is  lucky  because,  having  tested  all  things, 
he  finds  that  only  love  and  duty  are  true. 

New  York  Times: 

"Lucky  Pehr"  clothes  cynicism  in  real  entertain- 
ment instead  of  in  gloom.  And  it  has  its  surprises. 
Can  this  be  August  Strindberg,  who  ends  his  drama 
so  sweetly  on  the  note  of  the  woman-soul,  leading  up- 
ward and  on  ? 

Worcester  Gazette: 

From  a  city  of  Ohio  comes  this  product  of  Swedish 
fancy  in  most  attractive  attire,  attesting  that  the  pos- 
sibilities of  dramatic  art  hav^e  not  entirely  ceased  in 
this  age  of  vaudeville  and  moving  pictures.  A  great 
sermon  in  altruism  is  preached  in  these  pages,  which 
we  %vouId  that  millions  might  see  and  hear.  To  those 
who  think  or  would  like  to  think,  "1-ucky  Pehr"  will 
prove  a  most  readable  book.  *  *  *  An  allegory,  it  is 
true,  but  so  are  /Esop's  Fables,  the  Parables  of  the 
Scriptures  and  many  others  of  the  most  effective  les- 
sons ever  given. 

Boston  Globe: 

A  popular  drama.  *  *  *  There  is  no  doubt  about 
the  book  being  a  delightful  companion  in  the  library. 
In  charm  of  fancy  and  grace  of  imagery  the  story  may 
not  be  unfairly  classed  with  "The  Blue  Bird"  and 
"Peter  Pan." 
Photogravure    frontispiece     of    Strindheri^     etched     by 

Zorn.     Also,  a  reproduction  of  I'elma  Sivanston  Iloivard's 

authorization. 

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Easter 


(A  Play  in  Three  Acts) 
AND  STORIES  BY  AUGUST  STRINDBERG 

Authorized  translation  by  Velma  Scansion  Iloicard. 
In  this  i(:ork  the  author  reveals  a  broad  tolerance,  a  rare 
poetic  tenderness  augmented  by  an  almost  di-vine  under- 
standing of  human  frailties  as  marking  certain  natural 
stages  in  evolution  of  the  soul. 
Louisville  Courier=Journal : 

Here  is  a  major  key  of  cheerfulness  and  idealism 
— a  relief  to  a  reader  who  has  passed  through  some 
of  the  author's  morbid  pages.  *  *  *  Some  critics  find 
in  this  play  (Easter)  less  of  the  thrust  of  a  distinctive 
art  than  is  found  in  the  author's  more  lugubrious 
dramas.  There  is  indeed  less  sting  in  it.  Neverthe- 
less it  has  a  nobler  tone.  It  more  ably  fulfills  the 
purpose  of  good  drama — the  chastening  of  the  spec- 
tators' hearts  through  their  participation  in  the  suf- 
fering of  the  dramatic  personages.  There  is  in  the 
play  a  mystical  exaltation,  a  belief  and  trust  in  good 
and  its  power  to  embrace  all  in  its  beneficence,  to  bring 
all  confusion  to  harmony. 
The  Nation: 

Those  who  like  the  variety  of  symbolism  whic'n 
Maeterlinck  has  often  employed — most  notably  in  the 
"Bluebird" — will  turn  with  pleasure  to  the  short  stories 
of  Strindberg  which  Mrs.  Howard  has  included  in  her 
volume.  *  *  *  The>'  are  one  and  all  div^erting  on  ac- 
count of  the  author's  facility  in  dealing  with  fanciful 
details. 
Bookseller: 

"Easter"   is   a   play  of  six  characters  illustrative  of 

human    frailties    and    the    effect    of    the    divine    power 

of  tolerance   and  charity.  *  *  *  There  is  a  symbolism, 

.    a    poetic    quality,    a    spiritual    insight    in    the    author's 

work  that  make  a  direct  appeal  to  the  cultured.  *  *  * 

T/ie  Dial: 

One    play    from    his    (Strindberg's)    third,    or    sym- 
bolistic period   stands   almost  alone.     This   is  "Easter." 
There    is    a    sweet,    sane,    life-giving    spirit    about    it. 
Photogravure     frontispiece    of    Strindberg    etched     by 
Zorn.     Also,  a  reproduction  of  Velma  Sivanston  Hoivard's 
authorization. 
Handsomely  bound.     Gilt  top Net,  $1.50 


DRAMATIC  LITERATURE 


On   the   Seaboard 

By  AUGUST  STRINDBERG 

The    Author's    g^reatest    psychological    novel.     Author- 
ized Translation  bs  Elizabeth  Clarke  Westergren. 
American^Scandinavian  f(eview: 

"The  description  of  Swedish  life  and  Swedish  scen- 
ery   makes   one   positively   homesick    for   the    Skargard 
and  its  moods. 
Worcester  Evening  Gazette: 

"Classes  in  Psychology  in  colleges,  and  Medical  stu- 
dents considering  Pathology  would  derive  much  infor- 
mation from  the  observations  and  reflections  of  the 
commissioner  who  holds  the  front  of  the  stage  whereon 
are  presented  sciences  as  new  to  the  readers  of  to-day 
as  were  those  which  Frederick  Bremer  unfolded  to  the 
fathers  and  mothers  of  critics  and  observers  in  this 
first  quarter  of  the  Twentieth  Century." 
Detroit  Tribune: 

"Hans  Land   pronounced   this   novel   to  be  the  only 
work   of   art   in   the   domain  of  Nietzschean   morals  yet 
written  which  is  destined  to  endure." 
Cincinnati  Times=Star: 

"It  reejuires  a  book  such  as  'On  the  Seaboard'  to 
show  just  how  profound  an  intellect  was  housed  in  the 
frame  of  this  great  Swedish  writer." 
New  Haven  Leader: 

"His  delineations  are  photographical  exactness  with- 
out retouching,   and   bear   always  a  strong  reflection  of 
his  personality." 
Indianapolis  News: 

"The  story  is  wonderfully  built  and  conceived  and 
holds  the  interest  tight." 
American  Review  of  Reviews: 

"This  version  is  characterized  by  the  fortunate  use 
of  idiom,  a  delicacy  in  the  choice  of  words,  and  great 
beauty  in  the  rendering  of  descriptive  passages,  the 
translation  itself  often  attaining  the  melody  of  poetry 
*  *  *  You  may  read  and  re-read  it,  and  every  read- 
ing will  fascinate  the  mind  from  a  fresh  angle." 
Soutti  Atlantic  Quarterly: 

"Only   a   most   unusual   man,   a   genius,  could   have 
written  this  book,  and  it  is  distinctly  worth  reading." 
Handsomely    bound,    uniform    luilh    Lucky    Pehr    and 
Easter   Net,  $1.2^ 


STEWART  &  KIDD  COMPANY 

The  Hamlet  Problem  and  Its  Solution 

By  EMERSON  VENABLE 

Tjie  tragedy  of  Hamlet  has  never  been  adequately  in- 
terpreted. Tivo  hundred  years  of  eritical  discussion  has 
not  sufficed  to  reconcile  conflicting  impressions  regarding 
the  scope  of  Shakespeare's  design  in  this,  the  first  of  his 
great  philosophic  tragedies.  JVe  belie've  that  all  those 
students  icho  arc  interested  in  the  study  of  Shakespeare 
ivill  find  this  volume  of  great  value. 
The  Louisville  Courier-=JournaI : 

"Mr.  Venable's  Hamlet  is  a  'protagonist  of  a  drama 
of  triumpiiant  moral  achievement.'  He  rises  through 
the  play  from  an  elected  agent  of  vengeance  to  a 
man  gravely  impressed  with  'an  imperative  sense  of 
moral  obligation,  tragic  in  its  depth,  felt  toward  the 
world.'  " 
E.  H.  Sothern: 

"Your  ideas  of  Hamlet  so  entirely  agree  with  my 
own  that  the  book  has  been  a  real  delight  to  me.  I 
have  always  had  exactly  this  feeling  about  the  char- 
acter of  Hamlet.  I  think  you  have  wiped  away  a 
great  many  cobwebs,  and  I  believe  your  book  will 
prove  to  be  most  convincing  to  many  people  who  may 
yet  be  a  trifle  in  the  dark." 
The  Book  News  Monthly: 

"Mr.  Venable  is  the  latest  critic  to  apply  himself 
to  the  'Hamlet'  problem,  and  he  offers  a  solution  in 
an  admirably  written  little  book  which  is  sure  to  at- 
tract readers.  Undeterred  by  the  formidable  names 
of  Goethe  and  Coleridge,  Mr.  Venable  pronounces  un- 
tenable the  theories  which  those  great  authors  pro- 
pounded to  account  for  the  extraordinary  figure  of 
the  Prince  of  Denmark.  *  *  *  Mr.  Venable  looks  in 
another  direction  for  the  solution  of  the  problem. 
*  *  *  The  solution  offered  by  the  author  is  just  the 
reverse  of  that  proposed  by  Goethe.  *  *  *  From  Mr. 
Venable's  viewpoint  the  key  to  'Hamlet'  is  found  in 
the  famous  soliloquies,  and  his  book  is  based  upon 
a  close  study  of  those  utterances  which  bring  us  with- 
in the  portals  of  the  soul  of  the  real  Hamlet.  The 
reader  with  an  open  mind  will  find  in  Mr.  Venable  a 
writer  whose  breadth  of  view  and  searching  thought 
gives  weight  to  this  competent  study  of  the  most  inter- 
esting of  Shakespearean  problems." 
l6mo.     Silk  cloth Net,  $l.oo 


DRAMATIC  LITERATURE 


HOW  TO  WRITE 

Moving  Picture  Plays 

By  W.  L.  GORDON 

CONTENTS 

What  is  a  motion  picture?  How  are  moving  pictures 
produced?  What  is  necessary  to  write  photoplays? 
Prices  paid  for  plays.  Kind  of  plays  to  write.  Kind 
of  plays  to  avoid.  Single  reels,  double  reels,  etc.  Prepa- 
ration of  manuscript.  The  plot  and  how  to  obtain  it. 
Title  of  play.  Synopsis.  Cast  of  characters.  Scenario. 
Leaders  of  Sub-Titles.  Letters,  Clippings,  etc.  What 
constitutes  a  scene.  Continuity  of  scenes.  Stage  settings 
and  properties.  Entrance  and  exit  of  characters.  Cli- 
max. Limitations  of  camera.  Length  of  play.  Review. 
Time  required  to  write  a  play.  How  and  where  to  sell 
plays.  A  complete  sample  play  illustrating  every  point 
treated  upon  in  the  instructions.  A  full  list  of  over 
twenty  prominent  film-producing  companies  wanting  and 
buying  plays. 

The  following  extracts  from  letters  of  satisfied  writers, 
addressed  to  the  author,  are  very  convincing  and  be- 
speak the   value  of  this  exhaustive  treatise: 

"  Have  been  successful  in  placing  three  plays,  and  am 
awaiting  news  of  two  additional  ones.  Am  certain  I 
would  never  have  had  that  much  success  if  I  had  not  fol- 
lowed  your   instructions." 


"  Your  instructions  entirely  satisfactory.  I  think  that 
any  one  with  common  sense  can  make  a  very  nice  income 
through  moving  picture  play-writing.  My  first  scenario 
has  been  accepted,  and  I  desire  to  thank  you." 


"  You  might  be  interested  to  know  that  my  first  scenario 
completed  according  to  your  instructions  was  accepted  by 
the   Essanay  Film  Co." 


'■  Instructions    well    worth    the    money.     Sold    my    first 
scenario  to  the  Edison  Co." 


Handsomely  bound  in  DeLuxc  Cloth Net,  $3.00 


AA    001  295  925   o 


